THE SKETCH BOOK 



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Addison's Sir Roger da Coverley. 

Andersen's Fairy Tales. 

Arabian Nights' Entertainments. 

Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum, 

Austen's Pride and Prejudice. 

Bacon's Essays. 

Bible (Memorable Passages from). 

Blackmore's Lorna Doone. 

Browning's Shorter Poems. 

Browning, Mrs., Poems (Selected). 

Bryant's Thanatopsis, etc. 

Bulwer's Last Days of Pompeii. 

Bunyan's The Pilgrim's Progress. 

Burke's Speech on Conciliation. 

Burns' Poems (Selections from). 

Byron's Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. 

Byron's Shorter Poems. 

Carlyle's Essay. on Burns. 

Carlyle's Heroes and Hero Worship. 

Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonder- 
land (Illustrated). 

Chaucer's Prologue and Knight's Tale. 

Church's The Story of the Iliad. 

Church's The Story of the Odyssey. 

Coleridge's The Ancient Mariner. 

Cooper's The Deerslayer. 

Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans, 

Cooper's The Spy. 

Dana's Two Years Before the Mast. 

Defoe's Robinson Crusoe. 

De Quincey's Confessions of an English 
Opium- Eater. 

De Quincey's Joan of Arc, and The Eng- 
lish Mail-Coach. 



Dickens' A Christmas Carol, and The 
Cricket on the Hearth. 

Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities. 

bryden's Palamon and Arcite. 

Early American Orations, 1760-1824. 

Edwards' (Jonathan) Sermons. 

Eliot's Silas Marner. 

Emerson's Essays. 

Emerson's Early Poems. 

Emerson's Representative Men. 

English Narrative Poems. 

Epoch-making Papers in U. S. History. 

Franklin's Autobiography. 

Gaskell's Cranford. 

Goldsmith's The Deserted Village, She 
Stoops to Conquer, and The Good- 
natured Man. 

Goldsmith's The Vicar of Wakefield. 

Gray's Elegy, etc, and Cowper's John 
Gilpin, etc. 

Grimm's Fairy Tales. 

Hawthorne's Grandfather's Chair. 

Hawthorne's Mosses from an Old Manse. 

Hawthorne's Tanglewood Tales. 

Hawthorne's The House of the Seven 
Gables. 

Hawthorne's Twice-told Tales (Selections 
from). 

Hawthorne's Wonder-Book. 

Holmes' Poems. 

Homer's Iliad (Translated). 

Homer's Odyssey (Translated). 

Hughes' Tom Brown's School Days. 

Irving's Life of Goldsmith. 

Ir/ing's Knickerbocker. 



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irving's The Alhambra. 
irving's Sketch Book. 
Jrving's Tales of a Traveller. 
Keary's Heroes of Asgard. 
Kingsley's The Heroes. 
Lamb's The Essays of Elia. 
Lincoln's Inaugurals and Speeches. 
Longfellow's Evangeline. 
Longfellow's Hiawatha. 
Longfellow's Miles Standish. 
Longfellow's Tales of a Wayside Inn 
Lowell's The Vision of Sir Launfal. 
Macaulay's Essay on Addison. 
Macaulay's Essay on Hastings. 
Macaulay's Essay on Lord Clive. 
Macaulay's Essay on Milton. 
Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome. 
Macaulay's Life of Samuel Johnson. 
Milton's Comus and Other Poems. 
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Milton's Paradise Lost, Books L and II. 
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Out of the Northland. 
Falgrave's Golden Treasury. 
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Mark Antony). 
Foe's Poems. 

Poe's Prose Tales (Selections from). 
Pope's Homer's Iliad. 
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Ruskin's Sesame and Lilies. 
Scott's Ivanhoe. 
Scott's Kenilworth. 
Scott's Lady of the Lake. 
Scott's Lay of the Last Minstrel 
Scott's Marmion. 



Scott's Quentin Durward. 
Scott's The Talisman. 
Shakespeare's As You Like It 
Shakespeare's Hamlet. 
Shakespeare's Henry V. 
Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. 
Shakespeare's King Lear. 
Shakespeare's Macbeth. 
Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night a 

Dream. 
Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice. 
Shakespeare's Richard II. 
Shakespeare's The Tempest. 
Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. 
Shelley and Keats : Poems. 
Sheridan's The Rivals and The School 

for Scandal. 
Southern Poets : Selections. 
Spenser's Faerie Queene, Book I. 
Stevenson's Kidnapped. 
Stevenson's The Master of Ballantrae. 
Stevenson's Travels with a Donkey, and 

An Inland Voyage. 
vStevenson's Treasure Island. 
Swift's Gulliver's Travels. 
Tennyson's Idylls of the Kingo 
Tennyson's The Princess. 
Tennyson's Shorter Poems. 
Thackeray's Eng.ish Humourists 
Thackeray's Henry Esmond. 
Washington's Farewell Address, and 

Webster's First Bunker Hiil Oration, 
Whittier's Snow-Bound aad Other Early 

Poems. 
Woolman's Journal. 
Wordsworth's Shorter Poems. 



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J2S 




WASHINGTON IRVING. 



THE SKETCH BOOK 



BY 



WASHINGTON IRVING 



WITH NOTES AND INTRODUCTION 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON : MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 

1910 

All rights reserved 



le 






\ 



0\ 



Copyright, 1900, 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



Set up and electrotyped October, 1900. Reprinted October, 
1901; November, 1902 ; March, 1903; January, August, 1904; 
February, May, September, 1905; February, October, 1906; 
February, October, 1907 ; February, August, 1908 ; January, 
August, 1909 ; January, 1910. 



EXCHANGE 

5 
JUi I'j. 1944 
SermI p- 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction , c ix 

The Author's Account of Himself 1 

The Voyage 4 

Roscoe 11 

The Wife 18 

Rip Van Winkle 26 

English Writers on America 46 

Rural Life in England 55 

The Broken Heart 63 

The Art of Book-making 69 

A Royal Poet 76 

The Country Church 90 

The Widow and her Son 96 

A Sunday in London 104 

The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap 106 

The Mutability of Literature 117 

Rural Funerals 127 

The Iron Kitchen 140 

The Spectre Bridegroom 142 

vii 



Vin CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Westminster Abbey , , 158 

Christmas 174 

Tlie Stage Coacii 180 

Christmas Eve 187 

Christmas Day , . .198 

The Christmas Dinner 212 

London Antiques • „ , o 225 

Little Britain o . . 232 

Stratford-on-Avon 246 

Traits of Indian Cliaracter ... , . . . 265 

Philip of Pokanoket 277 

John Bull , o . 295 

The Pride of the Village 307 

The Angler „,........ 316 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 326 

L'Envoy 361 



INTRODUCTION 



" Forty years ago," writes Mr. Curtis, " upon a 
pleasant afternoon, you might have seen tripping 
with an elastic step along Broadway, in New York, 
a figure which even then would have been called 
quaint. It was a man of about sixty-six or sixty- 
seven years old, of a rather solid frame, wearing a 
Talma, as a short cloak of the time was called, that 
hung from the shoulders, and low shoes, neatly tied, 
which were observable at a time when boots were gen- 
erally worn. The head was slightly declined to one 
side, the face was smoothly shaven, and the eyes twin- 
kled with kindly humor and shrewdness. There was 
a chirping, cheery, old-school air in the whole appear- 
ance, an undeniable Dutch aspect, which, in the streets 
of New Amsterdam, irresistibly recalled Diedrich 
Knickerbocker. . . . The occasional start of interest 
as the figure was recognized by some one in the pass- 
ing throng, the respectful bow, and the sudden turn 
to scan him more closely, indicated that he was not 
unknown. Indeed, he was the American of his time 
universally known. This modest and kindly man 
was the creator of Diedrich Knickerbocker and Eip 
Van Winkle. He was the father of our literature, 



± tNTRODUCTION 

and at that time its patriarcli. He was Washington 
Irving." About the same time, on the same thorough- 
fare, one might liave seen two other figures of almost 
equal note : the slight, alert, active figure of William 
Oullen Bryant, and heavier, more combative figure oi 
James Fenimore Cooper. 

The History of New York was published in 180&, 
and its apx:)earance may be taken as the beginning 
of American literature ; Thanatopsis saw the light in 
1816, and will be regarded by future students of our 
literature as the prelude to American poetry, — its 
first distinct and resonant note ; while the publication 
of The Spy in 1821-22 gave the country its earliest 
novel of literary quality and American background. 
In New York, then, in the first two decades of the 
present century, American literature had its begin- 
nings ; and so brief is the story of literary develop- 
ment in this country that all these writers are still 
remembered by men now living. Indeed, there was 
living at Stratford-on-Avon last year a venerable but 
vigorous man who remembered Irving's visit to the 
charming town to which his sympathetic pen was to 
recall the attention of all lovers of English poetry; 
a visit which antedated the publication of The Sketch- 
Book in 1819 ! 

There had been vigorous writing in the American 
colonies long before the advent of what has come to be 
called the Knickerbocker school ; but, with very few 
exceptions, it belongs to the literature of iiiformation, 
of theology, of politics. The literature of imagina- 
tion, humor, and sentiment was the growth of a later 



INTRODUCTION Xi 

and more settled time. John Smith has a good 
though not an undisputed claim to the honor of having 
written the earliest American book, The True Relation 
of Such Occurrences and Accidents of Note as Hath Hap- 
pened in Virginia, which dates back to 1608 ; but the 
very title of the volume makes it clear that its valiant 
author was as lacking in the literary sense as were the 
New England chroniclers and theologians, who were 
soon to follow him with narratives of the new world 
which they were settling with such vigorous audacity, 
and with speculations concerning that other world of 
which they felt themselves, in a peculiar sense, the 
elect heirs. 

In the long stretch of time, during which the colo- 
nies were growing in strength and in the consciousness 
of their common necessities on the borders of a great 
continent, three writers appeared whose work betrays 
the sense of form and the instinct for style which 
mark the true man of Letters. Jonathan Edwards, 
Benjamin Eranklin, and John Woolman are names 
which will always appear in any account of the liter- 
ary development of the American people ; and yet 
none of these men practised the art of writing for its 
own sake, or looked at life from what may be called 
the literary point of view. 

During the Revolutionary period two men were 
active with the pen who, under happier conditions, 
might have anticipated Bryant by three or four dec« 
ades ; but the humor and wit of Francis Hopkinson, 
and the sensitive lyrical temperament of Philip Fre- 
neau, were swept into the current of passionate or 



«ii INTRODUCTION 

satirical expression and lost the natural unfolding 
which might have brought out their poetic rather than 
their polemic qualities. The Wild Honeysuckle and 
Eutaiv Springs seem to flow from deeper sources of 
inspiration than those which fed Freneau's satirical 
pieces. Charles Brockden Brown was the first Ameri- 
can to adopt literature as a profession, and he must 
always possess a certain interest for students of our 
literature ; but Wieland, Jane Talbot, and Arthur Mer- 
vyn are no longer read for their intrinsic value. 

Washington Irving stands, therefore, at the begin- 
ning of American literature as Chaucer stands at the 
beginning of English literature ; and there are certain 
obvious resemblances between the two writers, far 
separated as they are in genius, manner, and range of 
power. Both were of a very sympathetic tempera- 
ment, easily finding points of contact with widely 
dissimilar characters and epochs ; both were quickly 
responsive to different atmospheres, and both have, in 
its most kindly and genial form, the gift of humor. 
It may not be assuming too much, or pressing obvious 
resemblances too far, to suggest that the men who 
first turn the soil of a new field are likely to reap the 
harvest of seeds which have long been sown, and 
which are awaiting the insight of a sympathetic mind 
and the touch of a sympathetic imagination. There 
are no real breaks in the spiritual history of the race, 
although there are often sharp changes of direction. 
Races who emigrate to a new country, bring their past 
with them ; their spiritual life is continuous and un- 
broken, and before they begin to speak out of the new 



INTRODUCTIOIT Xlil 

consciousness of the present, they are likely to speak 
out of the deeper consciousness of the past. So 
Homer carried the Greeks back to Asia, Virgil the 
Romans back to Troy, Chaucer the English back to 
their earlier history, and Irving the imagination of 
the new world back to its own recent beginnings, and 
still further back to its earlier homes in the old world. 

Irving, like Longfellow, was attracted by his own 
genius to the richer life and the more picturesque 
aspects of an older civilization, and his instinct led 
him to attempt to equalize the intellectual conditions 
of two widely separated continents, by translating for 
the new world the rich experiences of the old world. 
Before American literature could touch the things 
which were distinctively American, it must first estab- 
lish spiritual and artistic connection with the great 
world of art and life beyond the sea. Dealing for the 
most part with old-world themes, but in the new-world 
temper and spirit, Irving connects our own literature 
with the literature of Europe. 

Eor this particular artistic work and service he was 
happily placed. New York was already, at the close 
of the Revolution, a cosmopolitan city, speaking eigh- 
teen or twenty languages, and with a composite popu- 
lation within the narrow limits of its island territory. 
It had not developed so definite a type of character 
as Virginia and Massachusetts ; but, on the other hand, 
it was not so sharply separated in feeling and taste 
from the mother country. It had less strenuousness 
of temper, and it had more ease of mood. If the tradi- 
tion of the eighteenth-century essayists and humor- 



Kir INTRODUCTION 

ists was to be continued anywhere in the new world, 
it could hardly have been elsewhere than on Manhattan 
Island. And Irving came upon the scene at a fortu- 
nate time ; at the very hour when the colonial era had 
come to an end, and the national era had begun as the 
result of a harassing and wearisome struggle. There 
was a new nation as well as a new country, and the 
time was ripe for those larger interests and that fuller 
expression of impulse, instinct and experience, which 
literature conserves and conveys. 

Born in the city of New York on April 3, 1783, the 
son of a well-to-do merchant who was also a stanch 
patriot, Irving was named after the great man whose 
resolute faith and marvellous resourcefulness had con- 
tributed so largely to the success of the American 
arms. The future metropolis was then a little city of 
less than twenty-five thousand inhabitants, living in 
close proximity to the Battery, and whose farthest 
limits were well below the present City Hall Park. 
The boy was born into a somewhat austere Calvinistic 
atmosphere ; but, although he was dutiful, his nature 
was of so rich quality and his vitality of imagination 
and emotion was so exuberant that he speedily made 
his own conditions of living. That there was a touch 
of the father's firmness in the more genial nature of 
the son is shown by the decisive act of the boy in 
presenting himself, without the knowledge of his par- 
ents, at Trinity Church for confirmation in order that 
be might effectually protect himself from any attempt 
to bring him into closer communion with the Calvin- 
istic faith. The further fact that he often escaped to 



INTRODUCTION XV 

the theatre, which then stood in John Street, went 
home in time for family prayers at nine, returned 
again to the play, and, later, faced the perils of climb- 
ing into his own room from a back alley, shows also, 
as Mr. Curtis says, that it is useless to try to prevent 
bluebirds from flying in spring. "The blithe creat- 
ures made to soar and sing will not be restrained. 
The same kind Providence that made Calvin made 
Shakespeare." 

Irving did not take kindly to the regular tasks of 
school life ; was done with the business of formal 
education at sixteen ; declined to go to college, and 
fed himself on English literature and much dreaming 
on the piers and along shaded paths. He entered a 
law office and continued to read literature ; and his 
delightful social qualities opened the doors of society 
to him at an early age and gave him, at the same 
time, the gift of making friends and enjoying people. 

In 1804 he made his first visit to Europe, going in 
search of health, but finding pleasure and intellectual 
profit as well. The old world was still old in those 
leisurely days of the sailing vessel and the stage- 
coach, and Irving was of a temper and at an age to 
enjoy to the full the picturesqueness of an older 
society. He was a born loiterer and observer ; of a 
nature which 'quickly adapted itself to his surround- 
ings ; of a geniality of temper which put him at ease 
with his fellows ; a quiet but sagacious observer, with 
a contagious flow of humor and a gift of tender but 
wholesome sentiment. He had the literary tempera- 
ment before he had developed the literary gift ; and 



XVI INTROD UCTION 

it was from the point of view of the literary man that 
he looked at life. He had his convictions in religion 
and politics, but he was never caught up by the 
passions or questions of the hour ; his survey of things 
was too broad for partisanship, too calm for propagan- 
dism ; and too much concerned with the human interest 
in things to permit of aggressive espousal of sides or 
causes. 

He saw something of France, Italy, Holland, and 
England ; he was keenly responsive to the beauty and 
charm of the old world : " I am a young man and in 
Paris," he wrote to a neglected correspondent ; he saw 
Mrs. Siddons and John Kemble, and returned to New 
York with restored health in 1806. Tlie town was 
small, but it contained a few congenial spirits who were 
soon drawn together, and whose fellowship inaugurated 
what has come to be known as the Knickerbocker period 
in New York. In this group were Washington and Peter 
Irving, the two Kembles, Henry Ogden, Henry Bre- 
voort, and James K. Paulding. There was much gayety 
of spirit in this small company of wits and good- 
fellows ; there were gifts of various kinds ; and there 
was immense capacity for enjoying life. 

The material for kindly satire and humorous deline- 
ation was at hand in the society and traditions of the 
little provincial city, and the two Irvings and Paul- 
ding saw the opportunity and used it after the man- 
ner of the early eighteenth-century essayists. The 
kindliness of Goldsmith and the urbanity of Addison 
found apt pupils in these critics of new-world society. 
The Salmagundi, a semi-monthly publication, which 



INTRODUCTION xvh 

aimed "to instruct the young, inform the old, correct 
the town, and castigate the age," ran through twenty 
numbers, and then suddenly vanished because the 
editors had said all they wanted to say in that way. 
There are reminiscences of the Spectator and the 
Citizen of the World in almost every issue of this 
delightfully irresponsible journal; there are traces of 
provincialism ; but there are also ["enuine high spirits, 
native humor, and the audacity of an original im- 
pulse. The form was imitative, but the matter was 
essentially new. It was the first outbreak of high 
spirits in a. literary form in the sober, laborious, push- 
ing new world. There had been satire before, but 
there had been no such contagious gayety. It was in 
striking contrast to the sombre New England spirit, 
which found expression in the words of one of its 

poets : — 

My thoughts on awful subjects roll, 
Damnation and the dead. 

And it was in equally striking contrast with the bitter 
irony or the indignant satire of Freneau and the writ- 
ers of the Eevolutionary period. The Salmagundi 
papers were characteristic of the freer life of the new 
country : its native humor, vitality, and hopefulness. 
The form was old, as most literary forms are, but it 
was handled with the careless ease which betrays th^ 
sense of possession. 

The touching and enduring affection of Irving for 
Matilda Hoffman, whose death was a crushing blow to 
his rising hopes, followed close upon this early suc- 
cess, and for a time completely overshadowed it ; but 



XVlll INTRODUCTION 

having tasted the joys of self-expression, the young 
writer could not deny himself the exercise of a genu- 
ine productive power. In 1809 the History of New 
York, by Diedrich Knickerbocker, artfully preceded by 
mysterious references to its fictitious author in the local 
press, made its appearance and took the town by storm. 
It was the first American book of true literary flavor 
and genuine literary quality, and its publication marks 
the beginning of American literature. The significance 
of the book in our literary history was not evident, of 
course, to the men and women into whose hands it 
came ; they were captivated by its free handling of the 
history and traditions of Manhattan Island, by its con- 
tagious humor, its audacious but good-natured satire, 
and its flow of high spirits. "I have never," wrote 
Walter Scott, "read anything so closely resembling the 
style of Dean Swift as the annals of Diedrich Knicker- 
bocker. ... I think, too, there are passages which indi- 
cate that the author possesses power of a different kind, 
and has some touches which remind me of Sterne." 

Irving's affiliations were with Goldsmith and Addi- 
son, however, rather than with Swift and Sterne. 
There was no malice in Diedrich Knickerbocker ; no 
trace of that caustic temper which gave Swift such 
terrible power ; there was broad fun ; there was pure 
comedy sometimes passing over into farce ; there were 
spontaneity, free movement of imagination, abounding 
vitality, with occasional touches of license. These 
qualities, rather than its art or the importance of its 
subject-matter, make the History of New York a piece 
of original literature. 



INTRODUCTION XIX 

The book had one immediate result, which will long 
keep its memory green: it created a legend. The lit- 
tle old gentleman by the name of Diedrich Knicker- 
bocker, who left his bill at the tavern unpaid, and 
was last seen in the Albany stage, has never returned, 
but has left behind him a tradition of priceless value 
to a great commercial city. Like all true myths the 
charming creation of Irving is full of symbolism, and 
has given the past of the metropolis that touch of the 
imagination which only true men of letters can impart 
to prosaic history. For all time New York will be the 
Knickerbocker city, and Washington Irving will re- 
main its representative man of letters. The book was 
read with delight, not unmixed with the protests of 
those descendants of the early Dutch families who 
lacked the sense of humor, and Avere unable to appre- 
ciate the charm of a humorous reproduction of the old- 
time life of the town Avhich made it live in the imagi- 
nation of a later day. 

Two years later Irving, who was still hesitating to 
adopt literature as a profession, became a partner in 
his brother's business house, and entered upon a very 
harassing period of his life; for he had no aptitude 
for business, and the time was unfavorable to such 
ventures. In 1815 he went abroad in the interests of 
the firm, and after a few months of travel in England, 
settled in Liverpool and devoted himself with com- 
mendable seriousness and fidelity to the hopeless task 
of building up a decaying business. Fortunately the 
struggle was not prolonged ; in 1818, after an honor 
able record, the firm failed* the long-postponed deci 



XX INTRODUCTION 

sion was made, and Irving cast in his lot with the 
fortunes of literatures. 

Earely has a choice of professions been followed 
by so rapid a disappearance of practical perplexities 
and such continuous and enduring prosperity. Tlie 
Sketch-Book was published in New York in the fol- 
lowing year, and the genial, kindly, witty Geoffrey 
Crayon was recognized as a true successor of Diedricb 
Knickerbocker. The provincial wit had become the 
accomplished man of the world, without parting with 
any of his native qualities. He had caught the tone 
of a more mature and cultivated society, but his indi- 
viduality had suffered no loss in the process of his 
education as a writer. " I feel great diffidence," he 
wrote to his friend Henry Brevoort in the same year, 
"about this reappearance in literature. I am con- 
scious of my imperfections, and my mind has been 
for a long time so pressed upon and agitated by vari- 
ous cares and anxieties, that J. fear it has lost much 
of its cheerfulness and some of its activity. I have 
attempted no lofty theme, nor sought to look wise 
and learned, which appears to be very much the fash- 
ion among our American writers at present. I have 
preferred addressing myself to the feelings and fancy 
of the reader more than to his judgment. My writ- 
ings may appear, therefore, light and trifling in our 
country of philosophers and politicians. But if they 
possess merit in the class of literature to which they 
belong, it is all to which I aspire in the work." 

Thsse words show how distinctly Irving discerned 
his aim as a man-of-letters and how thoroughly he 



INTRODUCTION- xxi 

looked at life from the literary point of view. This 
is perhaps the first clear statement in the history of 
American literature of the attitude of the literary man 
as contrasted with that of the theologian, the publicist, 
and the philosopher. And there are certain other 
words of his which disclose his feeling for the uses of 
his art : " If, however, I can by a lucky chance, in 
these days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow 
of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of 
sadness ; if I can, now and then, penetrate the gather- 
ing film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of 
human nature, and make my reader more in good- 
humor with his fellow-beings and himself, surely, 
surely I shall not then have written entirely in vain.'^ 
The Sketch-Book is, all things considered, Irving's 
most characteristic and important work. Critics have 
thought they found traces of imitation in it, but they 
have been misled by the date of its publication rather 
than by any derivative quality in its manner. It con- 
tinues the tradition of the Spectator, and belongs in 
the same general class ; but it deals with fresh ma- 
terials in a perfectly free and characteristic manner. 
Irving's words, " I have the merit of adopting a line 
for myself, instead of following others," were written 
with that modesty and truthfulness which always 
characterized him. Steele had created Isaac Bicker- 
staff, and Addison Sir Roger de Coverley ; he created 
Eip Van Winkle and Ichabod Crane. The chapters 
in Tlie Sketch-Book had the old-world ease, grace, and 
urbanity ; but they either dealt with new-world themes 
or they disclosed the new- world feeling and attitude. 



XXU INTRODUCTION 

In The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van WinkU 
Irving gave American literature two original creations, 
and contributed to the culture and resources of his 
country two legends of unique character and charm. 
Moreover, in these delightful sketches he prepared 
i:he way for American fiction, and especially for the 
short story, by showing how local material may be 
used for the purposes of art, and how rich what ap- 
pears to be prosaic life may become in the hands of 
the artist. These two sketches, so full of mellow 
humor, so deeply touched with the sense of human 
fellowship, have something more than artistic signifi- 
cance in the story of American literary development ; 
they are significant of the American temperament and 
way of looking at life. 

The delightful paper on Westminster Abbey has not 
lost its charm of tender sentiment and true feeling ; 
while that on Stratford-on-Avon has become a classic in 
the birthplace of Shakespeare, has made the fortune 
of one of the most interesting inns in England, and 
set in motion a tide of travel to Warwickshire which 
shows no signs of ebbing. 

The /Sketch-Book served another purpose; it made 
America respected in England. Sydney Smith had 
asked his famous question in the Edinburgh Review 
only the year before, and had declared that the Ameri- 
cans had no native literature ; but Jeffrey, in the same 
review, was distinctly flattering in his recognition of 
this book from over the sea; the truculent Quarterly 
praised it ; Walter Scott and Byron gave it generous 
words ; and the painter Leslie wrote that " Geoffrey 



INTRODUCTION XXlll 

Crayon is the most fashionable fellow of the day." 
Irving removed the reproach which Sydney Smith 
had brought against his country, and made England 
aware that Americans had begun to have a literature 
of their own. He had also made a prominent place 
for himself in that literature. 

Bracebridge Hall, laden with the fragrance of the 
old home and conveying the charm of its life to 
English-speaking people in the new world, appeared 
in 1822 and, with The Sketch-Booh, marked the sepa- 
ration of American from English literature, while it 
preserved unbroken the race tradition and the con- 
tinuity of its spiritual development. Two years later 
everybody was reading The Tales of a Traveller, and 
Irving had made himself not only the earliest of 
American essayists and humorists, but also the earli- 
est American short story-writer. 

He began to recognize his responsibilities as a pio- 
neer of letters in a new country, and to feel the neces- 
sity of dealing with larger themes on a more extended 
scale. In 1826 he began, in Madrid, his laborious 
researches preparatory to writing The Life of Colum- 
bus. He remained in Spain until 1829, and the ro- 
mantic annals and picturesque charm of the country, 
its architecture and people, found in his sensitive 
imagination their most successful modern interpreter. 
The Tales of the Alhamhra and Tlie Conquest of Granada 
are steeped in the atmosphere of the later Moorish 
history, and are penetrated with the pathos of a great 
race heroically struggling against fate. Irving had 
that gift of conveying the power of second sight to his 



XXIV INTRODUCTION- 

readers which often makes the literary man a more 
faithful delineator of the movement and life of a past 
time than the historian. The charm of these Spanish 
chronicles is still felt by the modern reader to whom 
Spain is familiar ground, but their value lies chiefly 
in their recovery of the spirit of a vanished civiliza- 
tion. 

In 1832 Irving returned to New York after an ab- 
sence of seventeen years, and found himself the object 
of an affection and admiration which, for a nature of 
such shyness and modesty, was not without serious 
trials. New York had grown into a city of respecta- 
ble dimensions, the West was being explored and set- 
tled, and the air was fall of stir and change. Irving, 
eager to see this new country which had made such 
strides during his absence, made an extensive journey 
through the South and West, and A Tour of the Prai- 
ries was the result of his experiences in the Pawnee 
country. On his return he purchased a small farm on 
the Hudson Eiver not far from Tarrytown and Sleepy 
Hollow, enlarged the Dutch cottage of stone, and 
Sunnyside began to take on that air of sweet seclusion 
and literary association which had made it one of the 
most beautiful homes of American Letters. Here he 
wrote Recollections of Abhotsford and Newstead Abbey, 
TJie Legends of the Conquest of Spain, Astoria, Captain 
Bonneville, and the occasional papers which were later 
brought together in Wolferfs Roost. 

In 1842, as ambassador to Spain, he went abroad 
for the last time and was absent four years and a 
half : a serious interruption to his work on The Life 



INTRODUCTION XXM 

of Washington. Upon his return he turned with heart- 
felt satisfaction to his old pursuits. 

The Biography of Goldsmith and Mahomet and his 
Successors appeared in 1849, and the publication of 
The Life of Washington was completed in 1859. Irving 
had long planned to tell the story of the Conquest of 
Mexico ; had dreamed of it in boyhood, collected a great 
mass of material relating to it, and was at work on the 
introductory chapters, when he learned that Prescott 
was intending to deal with the same subject. With 
characteristic generosity the older writer surrendered 
his great opportunity and cast aside the results of his 
long and arduous work in order not to stand in the 
way of a young and unknown historian. 

The closing years of Irving's life were rich in honor 
and affection, and when death came in the late au- 
tumn of 1859 it found him unspoiled by reputation 
and uncorrupted by his long intimacy with the world. 
For, notwithstanding his shyness, Irving was on the 
most friendly terms with his time; and his contem- 
poraries were quick to recognize his geniality and 
companionableness. His satire had no touch of mal- 
ice, his humor left no sting. He was sound in char- 
acter and above reproach in life ; a gentleman in every 
sense of a sorely misused but quite indispensable 
word ; but he was not a Puritan or a reformer. At 
the very beginning he identified American literature 
with purity of life, elevation of character, chivalrous 
respect for women, kindly humor and grace of manner. 
He had the literary gift, and the choice of his themes 
was a secondary matter. He was not concerned with 



xxvi INTRODUCTION 

problems, nor was he the messenger of a new truth. 
His gifts were a sensitive temperament, a delightful 
humor, a vein of true sentiment, and an instinct for 
style. His most characteristic and enduring work 
will be found in The Sketch-Boole, Bracebridge Hall, 
The Tales of a Traveller, and The Alhamhra. His 
biographies must not, however, be underrated; their 
limitations are apparent, but the portraits of Colum- 
bus, Washington, and Goldsmith are drawn with an 
insight, a breadth of style, and a firmness of line which 
give them enduring importance as works of historical 
and literary art. Thackeray called him "the first am- 
bassador whom the New World of Letters sent to the 
Old " ; he was also the earliest custodian of the liter- 
ary tradition in this country, and the first American 
writer who interpreted the spirit and function of lit« 
erature to his countrymen. 



THE SKETCH BOOK 



THE SKETCH BOOK 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF 

I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of 
her shel was turned eftsoones into a toad, and thereby was forced to 
make a stoole to sit on ; so the traveller that stragleth from his owne 
country is in a short time transformed into so monstrous a shape, that 
he is faine to alter his mansion with his manners, and to live where 
he can, not where he would. — Lyly's Euphues. 

I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing 
strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child I 
began my travels, and made many tours of discovery into 
foreign parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the 
frequent alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the town 
crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the range of my 
observations. My holiday afternoons were spent in rambles 
about the surrounding country. I made myself familiar with 
all its places famous in history or fable. I knew every spot 
where a murder or robbery had been committed, or a ghost seen. 
I visited the neighboring villages, and added greatly to my 
stock of knowledge, by noting their habits and customs and 
conversing with their sages and great men. I even journeyed 
one long summer's day to the summit of the most distant hill, 
whence I stretched my eye over many a mile of terra incog- 
nita, and was astonished to find how .vast a globe I inhabited. 

This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. 
Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and in de- 
vouring their contents, I neglected the regular exei ciaes of the 

B 1 



2 THE SKETCH BOOK 

school. How wistfully would I wander about the pier-heads 
in fine weather, and watch the parting ships, bound to distant 
climes ; with what longing eyes would I gaze after their lessen- 
ing sails, and waft myself in imagination to the ends of the 
earth ! 

Further reading and thinking, though they brought this 
vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to 
make it more decided. I visited various parts of my own 
country; and had I been merely a lover of fine scenery, I 
should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratification, 
for on no country had the charms of nature been more prod- 
igally lavished. Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid 
silver; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints; her 
valleys, teeming with wild fertility ; her tremendous cataracts, 
thundering in their solitudes ; her boundless plains, waving 
with spontaneous verdure ; her broad, deep rivers, rolling in 
solemn silence to the ocean; her trackless forests, where 
vegetation puts forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling 
with the magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine ; — 
no, never need an American look beyond his own country for 
the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. 

But Europe held forth the charms of storied and poetical 
association. There were to be seen the masterpieces of art, 
the refinements of highly cultivated society, the quaint 
peculiarities of ancient and local custom. My native country 
was full of youthful promise ; Europe was rich in the accumu- 
lated treasures of age. Her very ruins told the history of the 
times gone by, and every mouldering stone was a chronicle. 
I longed to wander over the scenes of renowned achievement 
— to tread, as it were, in the footsteps of antiquity — to 
loiter about the ruined , castle — to meditate on the falling 
tower — to escape, in short, from the commonplace realities of 
the present, and lose myself among the shadowy grandeurs of 
the past. 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF 3 

I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the great men of 
the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in America : not 
a city but has an ample share of them. I have mingled among 
them in my time, and been almost withered by the shade into 
which they cast me ; for there is nothing so baleful to a small 
man as the shade of a great one, particularly the great man of 
a city. But I was anxious to see the great men of Europe ; 
for I had read in the works of various philosophers, that all 
animals degenerated in America, and man among the number. 
A great man of Europe, thought I, must therefore be as 
superior to a great man of America, as a peak of the Alps to 
a highland of the Hudson ; and in this idea I was confirmed by 
observing the comparative importance and swelling magnitude 
of many English travellers among us, who, I was assured, were 
very little people in their own country. I will visit this land 
of wonders, thought I, and see the gigantic race from which 
I am degenerated. 

It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving 
passion gratified. I have wandered through different countries 
and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot 
say that I have studied them with the eye of a philosopher, but 
rather with the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of 
the picturesque stroll from the window of one print-shop to 
another ; caught sometimes by the delineations of beauty, 
sometimes by the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by 
the loveliness of landscape. As it is the fashion for modern 
tourists to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their port- 
folios filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for 
the entertainment of my friends. "When, however, I look over 
the hints and memorandums I have taken down for the pur- 
pose, my heart almost fails me, at finding how my idle humoi 
has led me aside from the great objects studied by every 
regular traveller who would make a book. I fear I shall give 
equal disappointment with an unlucky landscape-painter, who 



4 THE SKETCH BOOK 

had travelled on the Continent, but following the bent of his 
vagrant inclination, had sketched in nooks, and corners, and 
by-places. His sketch book was accordingly crowded with 
cottages, and landscapes, and obscure ruins ; but he had 
neglected to paint St. Peter's, or the Coliseum, the cascade of 
Terni, or the bay of Naples, and had not a single glacier or 
volcano in his whole collection. 



THE VOYAGE « 

Ships, ships, I will descrie you 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you, 
What you are protecting, 
And projecting, 
What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. 
Hallo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go? 

Old Poem. 

To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make 
is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence of worldly 
scenes and employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted 
to receive new and vivid impressions. The vast space of waters 
that separates the hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. 
There is no gradual transition by which, as in Europe, the fea- 
tures and population of one country blend almost imperceptibly 
with those of another. From the moment you lose sight of the 
land you have left, all is vacancy, until you step on the opposite 
shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and novelties of 
another world. 

In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a coa- 
nected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the 
story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separation. 



THE VOYAGE 6 

We drag, it is true, " a lengthening chain " at each remove of 
our pilgrimage ; but the chain is unbroken ; we can trace it back 
link by link; and we feel that the last still grapples us to home. 
But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious 
of being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, 
and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not 
merely imaginary, but real, between us and our homes — a gulf, 
subject to tempest, and fear, and uncertainty, rendering distance 
palpable, and return precarious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last 
blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the hori- 
zon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its 
concerns, and had time for meditation, before I opened another. 
That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained 
all most dear to me in life ; what vicissitudes might occur in it 
— what changes might take place in me, before I should visit 
it again ! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither 
he may be driven by the uncertain currents of existence ; or 
when he may return; or whether it may ever be his lot to i^- 
visit the scenes of his childhood ? 

I said, that at sea all is vacancy; I should correct the expres- 
sion. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself 
in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for meditation ; but 
then they are the wonders of the deep and of the air, and rather 
tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to 
loll over the quarter-railing or climb to the main-top, of a calm 
day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a 
summer's sea ; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peer- 
ing above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and peo- 
ple them with a creation of my own ; — to watch the gentle 
undulating billows rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away 
on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe 
with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on the mon- 



6 THE SKETCH BOOK \ 

sters of the deep at their uncouth gambols: shoals of porpoises 1 
tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus, slowly heav- \ 
ing his huge form above the surface; or the ravenous shark, I 
darting, like a spectre, through the blue waters. My imagina- i 
tion would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery i 
world beneath me ; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless j 
valleys ; of the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very ' 
foundations of the earth ; and of those wild phantasms that ; 
swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, , 
would be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting j 
this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of ; 
existence ! What a glorious monument of human invention ; j 
which has in a manner triumphed over wind and wave; has j 
brought the ends of the world into communion ; has established \ 
an interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of ] 
the north all the luxuries of the south; has diffused the light of \ 
knowledge, and the charities of cultivated life ; and has thus : 
bound together those scattered portions of the human race, be- \ 
tween which nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable J 
barrier. j 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a dis- ' 
tance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of the • 
surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the ! 
mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for ; 
there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the i 
crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their be- 
ing washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the 
name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently \ 
drifted about for many months; clusters of shell-fish had fas- ^ 
tened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But | 
where, thought I, is the crew 1 Their struggle has long been J 
over — they have gone down amidst the roar of the tempest — , 
their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. Si : 



THE VOYAGE 7 

lence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no 
one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been 
wafted after that ship ! what prayers offered up at the deserted 
fireside of home ! How often has the mistress, the wife, the 
mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some casual intelli- 
gence of this rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened 
into anxiety — anxiety into dread — and dread into despair ! 
Alas ! not one memento may ever return for love to cherish. 
All that may ever be known, is that she sailed from her port, 
" and was never heard of more ! " 

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal 
anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when 
the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild 
and threatening, and gave indications of one of those sudden 
storms that will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a sum- 
mer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of a lamp, in the 
cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale 
of shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a 
short one related by the captain : — 

"As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine, stout ship, across 
the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs that pre- 
vail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead, 
even in the daytime; but at night the weather was so thick 
that we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of 
the ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch 
forward to look out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed 
'to anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking 
breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water. 
Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of ' a sail ahead ! ' — it was 
scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a small 
schooner, at anchor, with her broadside toward us. The crew 
were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck 
her just amidships. The force, the size, and weight of our ves- 
sel, bore her down below the waves ; we passed over her and 



8 THE SKETCH BOOK 

were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking ' 
beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches, . 
rushing from her cabin ; they just started from their beds to be 
swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry \ 
mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears, i 
swept us out of all further hearing. I shall never forget that 1 
cry ! It was some time before we could put the ship about, she ; 
was under such headway. We returned as nearly as we could \ 
guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We cruised I 
about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal-guns, i 
and listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors : but ; 
all was silent — we never saw or heard anything of them \ 
more." 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine I 
fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea was 
lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, sullen \ 
sound of rushing waves and broken surges. Deep called unto ^ 
deep. At times the black volume of clouds overhead seemed 
rent asunder by flashes of lightning which quivered along the ; 
foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly ter- j 
rible. The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, i 
and were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I 
I saw the ship staggering and plunging among these roaring j 
caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or j 
preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water; \ 
her bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an 
impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing 
but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the 
shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed 
me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded 
like funereal wailings. The creaking of the masts ; the strain- 
ing and groaning of bulkheads, as the ship labored in the welt- 
ering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along 



THE VOYAGE 9 

the sides of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as 
if Death were raging round this floating prison, seeking for his 
prey : the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might 
give him entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, 
soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible 
to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind 
at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every 
sail swelled, and careering gayly over the curling waves, how 
lofty, how gallant, she appears — how she seems to lord it over 
the deep ! 

I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage ; for 
with me it is almost a continual reverie — but it is time to get 
to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of "land ! " 
was given from the mast-head. None but those who have ex- 
perienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensa- 
tions which rush into an American's bosom, when he first comes 
in sight of Europe. There is a volume of associc.aons with the 
very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with everything 
of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years 
have pondered. 

From that time, until the moment of arrival, it was all fev- 
erish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian 
giants along the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out 
into the channel ; the Welsh mountains towering into the 
clouds ; — all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed 
up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My 
eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrub- 
beries and green grass-plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an 
abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church 
rising from the brow of a neighboring hill ; — all were charac- 
teristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favorable, that the ship was en- 



10 THE SKETCH BOOK 

abled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with people \ 
some idle lookers-on ; others, eager expectants of friends or rel- 
atives. I could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship 

was consigned. I knew him by his calculating brow and rest- j 

less air. His hands were thrust into his pockets ; he was j 

whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small space ' 

having been accorded him by the crowd, in deference to his . 

temporary importance. There were repeated cheerings and ' 

salutations interchanged between the shore and the ship, as \ 

friends happened to recognize each otlier. I particularly no- ' 

ticed one young woman of humble dress, but interesting de- : 

meanor. She was leaning forward from among the crowd ; her ^ 

eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch some \ 

wished-for countenance. She seemed disappointed and agi- - 

tated ; when I heard a faint voice call her name. — It was : 

from a poor sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had j 

excited the sympathy of every one on board. When the ] 

weather was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him ! 

on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so increased i 

that he had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish ! 

that he might see his wife before he died. He had been helped J 
on deck as we came up the river, and was now leaning against 

the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, \ 

that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not recog- * 

nize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on ! 

his features : it read, at once, a whole volume of sorrow ; she ! 

clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing j 

them in silent agony. I 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaint- j 

ances — the greetings of friends — the consultations of men of ! 

business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to \ 

meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my i 

forefathers — but felt that I was a stranger in the land. ] 



ROSCOE 11 



ROSCOE° 

——In the service of mankind to be 
A guardian god below; still to employ 
The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, 
Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd, 
And make us shine for ever — that is life. 

Thomson. 

One of the first places to which a stranger is taken in Liv- 
erpool is the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal and 
judicious plan ; it contains a good library, and spacious read- 
ing-room, and is the great literary resort of the place. Go there 
at what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled with grave- 
looking personages, deeply absorbed in the study of. newspapers. 

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention 
was attracted to a person just entering the room. He was ad- 
vanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once have been 
commanding, but it was a little bowed by time — perhaps by 
care. He had a noble Roman style of countenance; a head 
that would have pleased a painter; and though some slight 
furrows on his brow showed that wasting thought had been 
busy there, yet his eye still beamed with the fire of a poetic 
soul. There was something in his whole appearance that indi- 
cated a being of a different order from the bustling race round 
him. 

I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Roscoe. 
I drew back with an involuntary feeling of veneration." This, 
then, was an author of celebrity; this was one of those men 
whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth; with 
whose minds I have communed even in the solitudes of Amer- 
ica. Accustomed, as we are in our country, to know European 
writers only by their works, we cannot conceive of them, as of 
other men, engrossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, and jostling 
with the crowd of common minds in the dusty paths of life 



12 THE SKETCH BOOK 

They pass before our imaginations like superior beings, radiant 
with the emanations of their genius, and surrounded by a hala 
of literary glory. 

To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici min- 
gling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my poetical 
ideas ; but it is from the very circumstances and situation in 
which he has been placed, that Mr. Roscoe derives his highest 
claims to admiration. It is interesting to notice how some 
minds seem almost to create themselves, springing up under 
every disadvantage, and working their solitary but irresistible 
way through a thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight 
in disappointing the assiduities of art, with which it would rear 
legitimate dulness to maturity ; and to glory in the vigor and 
luxuriance of her chance productions. She scatters the seeds 
of genius to the winds, and though some may perish among the 
stony places of the world, and some be choked by the thorns 
and brambles of early adversity, yet others will now and then 
strike root even in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up 
into sunshine, and spread over their sterile birthplace all the 
beauties of vegetation. 

Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a place 
apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent — in the 
very market-place of trade ; without fortune, family connections, 
or patronage; self-prompted, self-sustained, and almost self- 
taught, he has conquered every obstacle, achieved his way to 
eminence, and, having become; one of the ornaments of the 
nation, lias turned the whole force of his talents and influence 
to advance and embellish his native town. 

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given 
him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me particu- 
larly to point him out to my countrymen. Eminent as are his 
literary merits, he is but one among the many distinguished 
authors of this intellectual nation. They, however, in general, 
live but for their own fame, or their own pleasures. Their pri- 



ROSCOE 13 

vate history presents no lesson to the world, or, perhaps, a 
humiliating one of human frailty and inconsistency. At best, 
they are prone to steal away from the bustle and commonplace 
of busy existence ; to indulge in the selfishness of lettered ease ; 
and to revel in scenes of mental, but exclusive enjoyment. 

Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the accorded 
privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no garden of 
thought, nor elysium of fancy; but has gone forth into the 
highways and thoroughfares of life, he has planted bowers by 
the wayside, for the refreshment of the pilgrim and the so- 
journer, and has opened pure fountains, where the laboring man 
may turn aside from the dust and heat of the day, and drink 
of the living streams of knowledge. There is a " daily beauty 
in his life," on which mankind may meditate, and grow better. 
It exhibits no lofty and almost useless, because inimitable, ex- 
ample of excellence ; but presents a picture of active, yet simple 
and imitable virtues, which are within every man's reach, but 
which, unfortunately, are not exercised by many, or this world 
would be a paradise. 

But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of the 
citizens of our young and busy country, where literature and 
the elegant arts must grow up side by side with the coarser 
plants of daily necessity; and must depend for their culture, 
not on the exclusive devotion of time and wealth; nor the 
quickening rays of titled patronage ; but on hours and seasons 
snatched from the pursuit of worldly interests, by intelligent 
and public-spirited individuals. 

He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours 
of leisure by one master-spirit, and how completely it can give 
its own impress to surrounding objects. Like his own Lo- 
renzo de' Medici, on whom he seems to have fixed his eye, as on 
a pure model of antiquity, he has interwoven the history of his 
life with the history of his native town, and has made the 
foundations of his fame the monuments of his virtues. Wher 



14 THE SKETCH BOOK 

ever you go, in Liverpool, you j^erceive traces of his footsteps 
in all that is elegant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth 
flowing merely in the channels of traffic ; he has diverted from 
it invigorating rills to refresh the garden of literature. By his 
own example and constant exertions, he has effected that union 
of commerce and the intellectual pursuits, so eloquently recom- 
mended in one of his latest writings ;° and has practically 
proved how beautifully they may be brought to harmonize, and 
to benefit each other. The noble institutions for literary and sci- 
entific pui-poses, which reflect such credit On Liverpool, and are 
giving such an impulse to the public mind, have mostly been 
originated, and have all been eff"ectively promoted, by Mr. Ros- 
coe ; and when we consider the rapidly increasing opulence and 
magnitude of that town, which promises to vie in commercial 
importance with the metropolis, it will be perceived that in 
awakening an ambition of mental improvement among its in- 
habitants, he has effected a great benefit to the cause of British 
literature. 

In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author; in 
Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker ; and I was told of his 
having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity him, as 
I heard some rich men do. I considered him far above the 
reach of pity. Those who live only for the world, and in the 
world, may be cast down by* the frowns of adversity; but a 
man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by the reverses of for- 
tune. They do but drive him in upon the resources of his own 
mind, to the superior society of his own thoughts ; which the 
best of men are apt sometimes to neglect, and to roam abroad 
in search of less worthy associates. He is independent of the 
world around him. He lives with antiquity and posterity — 
with antiquity, in the sweet communion of studious retirement ; 
and with posterity, in the generous aspirings after future re- 
nown. The solitude of such a mind is its state of highest en- 
joyment. It is then visited by those elevated meditations which 



ROSCOE 15 

are the proper aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna sent 
from heaven, in the wilderness of this world. 

While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was my 
fortune to light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding 
out with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liverpool, when 
he turned off, through a gate, into some ornamented grounds. 
After riding a short distance, we came to a spacious mansion of 
freestone, built in the Grecian style. It was not in the purest 
taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and the situation was de- 
lightful. A fine lawn sloped away from it, studded with clumps 
of trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile country into a 
variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a broad 
quiet sheet of water through an expanse of green meadow land, 
while the Welsh mountains, blended with clouds, and melting 
into distance, bordered the horizon. 

This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the days of his 
prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and liter- 
ary retirement. The house was now silent and deserted. I 
saw the windows of the study, which looked out upon the soft 
scenery I have mentioned. The windows were closed — the 
library was gone. Two or three ill-favored beings were loitering 
about the place, whom my fancy pictured into retainers of the 
law. It was like visiting some classic fountain, that had once 
welled its pure waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and 
dusty, with the lizard and the toad brooding over the shattered 
marbles. 

I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe/s library, which had 
consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of which he 
had drawn the materials for his Italian histories. It had passed 
under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was dispersed about 
the country. The good people of the vicinity thronged like 
wreckers to get some part of the noble vessel that had been 
driven on shore. Did such a scene admit of ludicrous associa- 
tions, we might imagine something whimsical in this strange 



16 THE SKETCH BOOK 

irruption in the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the 
armory of a giant, and contending for the possession of weapons 
which they could not wield. We might picture to ourselves 
some knot of speculators, debating with calculating brow over 
the quaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete 
author ; or the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with which 
some successful purchaser attempted to dive into the black-letter 
bargain he had secured. 

It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Eoscoe's misfor- 
tunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the studious mind, 
that the parting with his books seems to have touched upon his 
tenderest feelings, and to have been the only circumstance that 
could provoke the notice of his muse. The scholar only knows 
how dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts 
and innocent hours become in the seasons of adversity. When 
all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain 
their steady value. When friends grow cold, and the converse 
of intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, 
these only continue the unaltered countenance of happier days, 
and cheer us with that true friendship which never deceived 
hope, nor deserted sorrow. 

I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the people of Liver- 
pool had been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe 
and themselves, his library would never have been sold. Good 
worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circumstance, 
which it would be difficult to combat with others that might 
seem merely fanciful ; but it certainly appears to me such an 
opportunity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind strug- 
gling under misfortunes by one of the most delicate, but most 
expressive tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, however, 
to estimate a man of genius properly who is daily before our 
eyes. He becomes mingled and confounded with other men 
His great qualities lose their novelty ; we become too familial 
with the common materials which form the basis even of the 



ROSCOE 17 

/oftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen may regard 
him merely as a man of business ; others, as a politician ; all 
find him engaged like themselves in ordinary occupations, and 
surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some points of worldly 
wisdom. Even that amiable and unostentatious simplicity of 
character, which gives the nameless grace to real excellence, 
may cause him to be undervalued by some coarse minds, who 
do not know that true worth is always void of glare and preten- 
sion. But the man of letters, who speaks of Liverpool, speaks 
of it as the residence of Roscoe. The intelligent traveller who 
visits it inquires where Roscoe is to be seen He is the literary 
landmark of the place, indicating its existence to the distant 
scholar. He is like Pompey's column to Alexandria, towering 
alone in classic dignity. 

The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his books, 
on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding article. 
If anything can add effect to the pure feeling and elevated 
thought here displayed, it is the conviction, that the whole is 
no effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript from the writer's 
heart. 

« 

TO MY BOOKS 

As one who, destined from his friends to part, 
Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
To share their converse, and enjoy their smile, 

And tempers as he may affliction's dart ; 

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 

Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 

I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, 
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
And all your sacred fellowship restore ; 
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 



18 THE SKETCH BOOK 



THE WIFE 

The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
As are the concealed comforts of a man 
Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air 
Of blessings, when I come but near the house, 
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth — 
The violet bed's not sweeter! 

MiDDLETON. 

I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with 
which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of for- 
tune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man, 
and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the ener- 
gies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation 
to their character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. 
Nothing can be more touching, than to behold a soft and 
tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, 
and alive to every trivial roughness, while treading the pros- 
perous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the 
comforter and support of her husband under misfortune, and 
abiding with unshrinking firmness the bitterest blasts of ad- 
versity. 

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about 
the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the 
hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its 
caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs, so is it 
beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the 
mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, 
should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calam- 
ity ; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, ten- 
derly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken 
heart. 

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a 
blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. "1 



THE WIFE 19 

can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, "than 
to have a wife and children. If you are prosj^erous, there they 
are to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there they are to 
comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married 
man falling into misfortune, is more apt to retrieve his situa- 
tion in the world than a single one | partly, because he is more 
stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and 
beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence, but 
chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic 
endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding that, 
though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is 
still a little world of love at home, of which he is the mon- 
arch. Whereas, a single man is apt to run to waste and self- 
neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart 
to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, for want of an in- 
habitant. 

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of 
which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had 
married a beautiful and accomplished girl, wlio had been 
brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is 
true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample ; and he 
delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant 
pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies 
that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. " Her life," said 
he, "shall be like a fairy tale." 

The very difference in their characters produced a harmonious 
combination ; he was of a romantic, and somewhat serious cast ; 
she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute 
rapture with which he would gaze upon her in company, of 
which her sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, 
in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as 
if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When lean- 
ing on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall, 
manly person. The fond, confiding air with which she lookied 



20 THE SKETCH BOOK 

up to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and 
cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its 
very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery 
path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of 
felicity. 

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have em- 
barked his property in large speculations; and he had not 
been married many months, when, by a succession of sudden 
disasters, it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced 
almost to penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself, 
and went about with a haggard countenance and a breaking 
heart. His life was but a protracted agony; and what ren- 
dered it more insupportable was the necessity of keeping up a 
smile in the presence of his wife ; for he could not bring himself 
to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the 
quick eyes of afl'ection, that all was not well with him. She 
marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be 
deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She 
tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win 
him back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow deeper 
into his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more 
torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her 
wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will ,van- 
ish from that cheek — the song will die away from those lips 
— the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow ; and 
the happy heart which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be 
weighed down, like mine, by the cares and miseries of the 
world. 

At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situ- 
ation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I had heard him 
through, I inquired : "Does your wife know all this?" At the 
question he burst into an agony of tears. " For God's sake ! " 
cried he, " if you have any pity on me don't mention my wife ; 
it is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness I " 



THE WIFE 21 \ 

"And why not?" said I. "She must know it v«ooner or , 
later : you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence j 
may break upon her in a more startling manner than if im- | 
parted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the i 
harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the \ 
comforts of her sympathy : and not merely that, but alf-o en- 
dangering the only bond that can keep hearts together— an 
unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon i 
perceive that something is secretly preying upon your mind ; \ 
and true love will not brook reserve ; it feels undervalued and j 
outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed 
from it." J 

" Oh, but my friend ! to think what a blow I am to give to J 
all her future prospects, • — how I am to strike her very soul : 
to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! that ■ 
she is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of ; 
society — to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity ! To ' 
tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which ' 
she might have continued to move in constant brightness — the 
light of every eye — the admiration of every heart ! How can 
she bear poverty ? She has been brought up in all the refine- 
ments of opulence. How can she bear neglect ? She has been 
th^ idol of society. Oh, it will break her heart — it will break 
her heart ! " 

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; for 
sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had sub- 
sided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the 
subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at once to 
his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively. 

" But how are you to keep it from her ? It is necessary she 
should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the 
alteration of your circumstances. You must change your style 
of living — nay," observing a pang to pass across his counte- 
nance, " don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never 



22 THE SKETCH BOOK 

pLaced your happiness in outward show — you have yet friends, 
warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being 
less splendidly lodged : and surely it does not require a palace 
to be happy with Mary " 

"I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, " in a 
hovel ! I could go down with her into poverty and the dust ! 
I could — I could — God bless her ! — God bless her ! " cried 
he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. 

"And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasp- 
ing him warmly by the hand, " believe me, she can be the same 
with you. Ay, more ; it will be a source of pride and triumph 
to her — it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent 
sympathies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that 
she loves you for yourself. There is in every true woman's 
heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad 
daylight of prosperity ; but which kindles up, and beams, and 
blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the 
wife of his bosom is — no man knows what a ministering angel 
she is — until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of 
this world." 

There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and 
the figurative style of ray language, that caught the excited im- 
agination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with ; 
and following up the impression I had made, I finished by per- 
suading him to go home and unburden his sad heart to his 
wife. 

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some 
little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the forti- 
tude of one whose whole life has been a round of pleasures ? 
Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark^ downward path of 
low humility suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling 
to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto revelled. Be- 
sides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so many galling 
mortifications, to which, in other ranks, it is a stranger. In 



THE WIFE 23 i 

short, I could not meet Leslie, the next morning, without trepi- j 

dation. He had made the disclosure. 1 

" And how did she bear it ? " '■ 

" Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her \ 

mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this ' 

was all that had lately made me unhappy. But, poor girl," ; 

added he, "she cannot realize the change we must undergo. ] 

She has no idea of poverty'' but in the abstract ; she has only ! 

read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet ^ 

no privation; she suffers no loss of accustomed conveniences \ 

nor elegancies. When we come practically to experience its | 

sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humiliations — then \ 

will be the real trial." ' 

"But," said I, "now that you have got over the severest < 

task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world ', 

into the secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying ; I 

but then it is a single misery, and soon over : whereas you ^ 

otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It -• 

is not poverty, so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man : 

— the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse — ; 
the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. 

Have the courage to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of ] 

its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie perfectly pre- ' 
pared. He had no false pride himself, and as to his wife, sho 

was only anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. ,; 

Some days afterward he called upon me in the evening. Ho 1 

had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small cottage ! 

in the country, a few^ miles from town. He had been busied | 

all day in sending out furniture. The new establishment re- ■! 
quired few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the 

splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, excepting : 

his wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with .! 

the idea of herself; it belonged to the little story of their loves ; i 
for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those 



24 THE SKETCH BOOK 

when he had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the 
melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this in- 
stance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. 

He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had 
been all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings had 
become strongly interested in the progress of this family story, 
and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him. 

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as we 
walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 

" Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his 
lips. 

" And what of her," asked I, " has anything happened to her 1 " 

"What," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it nothing 
to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in a miser- 
able cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial con- 
cerns of her wretched habitation 1 " 

" Has she then repined at the change ? " 

"Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good- 
humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever 
known her ; she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and 
comfort ! " 

"Admirable girl !" exclaimed I. "You call yourself poor, 
my friend ; you never were so rich, — you never knew the 
boundless treasures of excellence you possess in that woman." 

"Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage 
were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is 
her first day of real experience ; she has been introduced into a 
humble dwelling, — she has been employed all day in arranging 
its miserable equipments, — she has, for the first time, known 
the fatigues of domestic employment, — she has, for the first 
time, looked around her on a home destitute of everything 
elegant — almost of everything convenient ; and may now be 
sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect 
of future poverty." 



THE WIFE 25 

There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could 
not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 

After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thickly 
shaded with forest-trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, 
we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its 
appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleas- 
ing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a pro- 
fusion of foliage ; a few trees threw their branches gracefully 
over it ; and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully dis- 
posed about the door, and on the grass-plot in front. A small 
wicket-gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some 
shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the 
sound of music — Leslie grasped my arm ; we paused and 
listened. It was Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most 
touching simplicity, a little air of which her husband was 
peculiarly fond. 

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward, 
to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel 
walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window, and 
vanished — a light footstep was heard — and Mary came trip- 
ping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty rural dress of 
white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair ; a fresh 
bloom was on her cheek ; her whole countenance beamed with 
smiles — I had never seen her look so lovely. 

" My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you are come ; 
I have been watching and watching for you ; and running down 
the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a table under a 
beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and I've been gathering some 
of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond of 
them — and we have such excellent cream — and everything is 
so sweet and still here — Oh ! " — said she, putting her arm 
within his, and looking up brightly in his face, " Oh, we shall 
be so happy ! " 

Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom — 



26 THE SKETCH BOOK 

he folded his arms round her — he kissed her again and again 
— he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and 
he has often assured me, that though the world has since gone 
prosperously with him, and his life has, indeed, been a happy 
one, yet never has he experienced a moment of more exquisite 
felicity. 



RIP VAN WINKLE° 

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER 

[The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich 
Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious 
in the Dutch History of "the province and the manners of the descend- 
ants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, - 
did not lie so much among books as among men ; for the former are 
lamentably scanty on his favorite topics, whereas he found the old 
burghers, and still more their wives, rich in that legendary lore so - 
invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a 
genuine Dutch farnHy, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farm-house, 
under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped 
volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a bookworm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the province dur- 
ing the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years 
since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character 
of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should 
be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which indeed was a little 
questioned on i;:s first appearance, but has since been completely estab- 
lished ; and it is now admitted into all historical collections as a book 
of unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, 
and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his mem- 
ory to say that his time might have been much better employed in 
weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way ; 
and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of 
his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends for whom he felt the 
truest deference and affection, yet his errors and follies are remem- 
bered "more in sorrow than in auger," and it begins to be suspected 
that he never intended to injure or offend. But, however his memory 
may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear by many folk, whose 
good opinion is well worth having; particularly by certain biscuit- 
bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new- 



KIP VAN WINKLE 27 

year cakes, and have thus given him a chance for immortality almost 
equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal or a Queen Anne's 
farthing.] 

By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday, 

Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 

Unto thylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre — 

Cartvtright. 

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remem- 
ber the Kaatskill mountains.^ They are a dismembered branch 
of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the 
west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it 
over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every 
change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day produces some 
change in the mi:\^ical hues and shapes of these mountains ; and 
they are regardeoby all the good wives, far and near, as perfect 
barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are 
clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the 
clear evening sky ; but sometimes, when the rest of the land- 
scape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors about 
their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will 
glow and light up like a crown of glory. 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have 
descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose 
shingle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints 
of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer land- 
scape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been 
founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of 
the province, just about the beginning of the government of the 
good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace !), and there were 
some of the houses of the original settlers standing within a few 
years, built of small yellow bricks, brought from Holland, hav- 
ing latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather- 
cocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses (whicli, 



28 THE SKETCH BOOK 

to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather- 
beaten), there lived, many years since, while the country was 
yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, 
of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the 
Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of 
Peter Stuyvesant,° and accompanied him to the siege of Fort 
Christina. He inherited, however, but little of the martial 
character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a 
simple, good-natured man ; he was, moreover, a kind neighbor, 
and an obedient henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter 
circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which 
gained him such universal popularity ; for those men are apt to 
be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the disci- 
pline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered 
pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, 
and a curtain-lecture is worth all the sermons in the world for 
teaching the virtues of patience and long-sufi'ering. A terma- 
gant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a 
tolerable blessing, and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice 
blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good 
wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took 
his part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they 
talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all 
the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, 
too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He as- 
sisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to 
fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, 
witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the 
village, he was surrounded by a troop of them hanging on his 
skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks 
on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at him 
throughout the neighborhood. 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable 



RIP VAN WINKLE 29 

aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from 
the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would sit on a 
wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and 
fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be 
encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece 
on his shoulder, for hours together, trudging through woods and 
swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or 
wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even 
in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all country 
frolics for husking Indian corn, or building stone fences ; the 
women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their 
errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging 
husbands would not do for them. In a word. Rip was ready to 
attend to anybody's business but his own ; but as to doing family 
duty and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm ; it 
was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole coun- 
try; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong in 
spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; 
his cow would either go astray, or get among the cabbages; 
w^eeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere 
else ; the rain always made a point of setting in just as he had 
some out-door work to do ; so that though his patrimonial es- 
tate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, 
until there was little more left than a mere patch of Indian 
corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst-conditioned farm in the 
neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged 
to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own like- 
ness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes, of 
his father. He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his 
mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off" galli- 
gaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as 
a fine lady does her train in bad weather. 



30 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, j 

of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat | 

white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought \ 

or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for , 
a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away, 

in perfect contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning ' 
in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he 

was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her -, 
tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did 

was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip ; 

had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and 5 

that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged i 

his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. : 

This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife, so ^ 
that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside 

of the house — the only side which, in truth, belongs to a hen- \ 

pecked husband. \ 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as i 
much henpecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle regarded ' 
them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf j 
with an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often 1 
astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable :; 
dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods 
— but what courage can withstand the ever-doing, and all- 
besetting "terrors of a woman's tongue ? The moment Wolf j 
entered the house, his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, i 
or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, I 
casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at \ 
the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the ; 
door with yelping precipitation. i 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years | 

of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never mellows with age, < 

and a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener \ 

with constant use. For a long while he used to console him- ] 



RIP VAN WINKLE 31 

self, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual 
club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the 
village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, 
designated by a rubicund portrait of his Majesty George the 
Third. Here they used to sit in the shade through a long, 
lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or tell- 
ing endless, sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have 
been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound 
discussions which sometimes took place, when by chance an old 
newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveller. 
How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled 
out by Derrick Van Bummel, the school-master, a dapper 
learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most 
gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagely they would 
deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken 
place. 

The opinions of this junto were completely eonti-olled by 
Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the 
inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till 
night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in 
the shade of a large tree ; so that the neighbors could tell the 
hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is 
true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe inces- 
santly. His adherents, however, (for every great man has his 
adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather 
his opinions. When anything that was read or related dis- 
pleased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and 
to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs ; but when pleased, 
he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it 
in light and placid clouds, and sometimes, taking the pipe from 
his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, 
would gravely nod his head in token of perfect appi'obation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length 
routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in 



32 THE SKETCH BOOK \ 

upon the tranquillity of the assemblage, and call the members ' 
all to nought ; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder ; 
himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, j 
who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in J 
habits of idleness. ' 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his i 
only alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and the 
clamor of his wife, was to take gun in hand, and stroll away 
into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the ' 
foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, 
with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. \ 
" Poor Wolf," he would say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's \ 
life of it ; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt ! 
never want a friend to stand by thee ! " Wolf would wag his ^ 
tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can feel I 
pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his i 
heart. > 

In a long ramble of the kind, on a fine autumnal day. Rip 
had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the '• 
Kaatskill mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squir- | 
rel-shooting, and the still solitudes had echoed and re-echoed \ 
with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw \ 
himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with j 
mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From \ 
an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower ^ 
country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a dis- j 
tance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent ■ 
but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or ' 
the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its glassy \ 
bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. \ 

On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, \ 
wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments ' 
from the impending cliff's, and scarcely hghted by the reflected . 
Ta.ys of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on 



RIP VAN WINKLE 33 

this scene ; evening was gradually advancing ; the mountains 
began to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys ; he 
saw that it would be dark long before he could reach the 
village; and he heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of 
encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance 
hallooing : " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " He looked 
around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary 
flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have 
deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the 
same cry ring through the still evening air, " Rip Van Winkle ! 
Rip Van Winkle !" — at the same time Wolf bristled up his 
back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, 
looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague 
apprehension stealing over him ; he looked anxiously in the 
same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling 
up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he 
carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being 
in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be 
some one of the neighborhood in need of his assistance, he has- 
tened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the singu- 
larity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square- 
built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. 
His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin 
strapped round the waist — several pairs of breeches, the outer 
one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the 
sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulders a 
stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip 
to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy 
and distrustful of this new acquaintance. Rip complied with his 
usual alacrity ; and mutually relieving each other, they clam- 
bered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain 
torrent. As they ascended, Rip every now and then heard long 



34 THE SKETCH BOOK ; 

I 
rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of 

a deep ravine, or rather cleft between lofty rocks, toward which j 

their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but | 

supposing it to be the muttering of one of those transient ; 

thunder-showers which often take place in the mountain j 

heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they j 

came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by ! 

perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending j 

trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses \ 

of the azure sky, and the bright evening cloud. During the ! 
whole time Rip and his companion had labored on in silence ; 

for though the former marvelled greatly what could be the ' 

object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet j 

there was something strange and incomprehensible about the ' 
unknown, that inspired awe, and checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder pre- j 
sented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a com- 
pany of odd-looking personages playing at ninepins. They were ; 
dressed in quaint outlandish fashion ; some wore short doublets, \ 
others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them ; 
had enormous breeches, of similar style with tliat of the guide's. '■ 
Their visages, too, were peculiar ; one had a large head, broad ; 
face, and small piggish eyes ; the face of another seemed to ' 
consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar- \ 
loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, i 
of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be \ 
the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather- 1 
beaten countenance ; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and ; 
hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high- j 
heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded ] 
Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of j 
Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had been 
brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these 



RIP VAN WINKLE 35 

folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained 
the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, 
the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. 
Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of 
the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the 
mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them they suddenly 
desisted from their play, and stared at him with sucli fixed 
statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre counte- 
nances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote 
together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg 
into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the com- 
pany. He obeyed with fear and trembling ; they quaffed the 
liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game. 

By degrees. Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even 
ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage 
which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. 
He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat 
the draught. One taste provoked another; and he reiterated 
his visits to the flagon so often, that at length his senses were 
overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually 
declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he 
had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes — 
it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and 
twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, 
and breasting the pure mountain breeze. " Surely," thought 
Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occur- 
rences before he fell asleep. The strange man with the keg 
of liquor — the mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the 
rocks — the woe-begone party at ninepins — the flagon — " Oh ! 
that flagon ! that wicked flagon ! " thought Rip — " what excuse 
shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ? " 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well- 



36 THE SKETCH BOOK 

oiled fowling-piece, he found an old fire-lock lying by him, the 
barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock 
worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysterers of 
the mountain had put a trick upon him, and having dosed him 
with liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disap- 
peared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or par- 
tridge. He whistled after him and shouted his name, but all 
in vain ; the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog 
was to be seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gam- 
bol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and 
gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, 
and wanting in his usual activity. " These mountain beds do 
not agree with me," thought Rip, "and if this frolic should lay 
me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time 
with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down 
into the glen : he found the gully up which he and his compan- 
ion had ascended the preceding evening ; but to his astonishment 
a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock 
to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, how- 
ever, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome 
way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel ; and 
sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape vines that 
twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a 
kind of network in his path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through 
the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; but no traces of such opening 
remained. The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall, over 
which the. torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, 
and fell into a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of the 
surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a 
stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was 
only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting j 
high in the air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny preci- j 



RIP VAN WINKLE 37 

pice ; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down 
and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be 
done 1 The morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished 
for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and 
gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; but it would not do to 
starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered 
the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, 
turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village, he met a number of people, 
but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for 
he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the 
country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion 
from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at 
him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast 
their eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The con- 
stant recurrence of this gesture, induced Rip, involuntarily, to 
do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard 
had grown a foot long ! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of 
strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and point- 
ing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he 
recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. 
The very village was altered : it was larger and more populous. 
There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and 
those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. 
Strange names were over the doors — strange faces at the 
windows — everything was strange. His mind now misgave 
him ; he began to doubt whether both he and the world 
around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native 
village, which he had left but the day before. There stood 
the Kaatskill mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a 
distance — there was every hill and dale precisely as it had 
always been — Rip was sorely perplexed — " That flagon last 
night," thought he, " has addled my poor head sadly ! " 



38 THE SKETCH BOOK \ 

\ 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own j 
house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every \ 
moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He 
found the house gone to decay — the roof had fallen in, the win- ' 
dows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved ! 
dog, that looked like Wolf, was skulking about it. Rip called | 
him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed ; 
on. This was an unkind cut indeed. *'My very dog," sighed i 
poor Rip, " has forgotten me ! " ; 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame Van i 
Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, 1 
and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his \ 
connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife and children — ; 
the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then \ 
all again was silence. ij 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the ! 
village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden ; 
building stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some 
of them broken, and mended with old hats and petticoats, i 
and over the door was painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jonathan 
Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the : 
quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked ' 
pole, with something on the top that looked like a red nightcap, | 
and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assem- ; 
blage of stars and stripes — all this was strange and incompre- 
hensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of • 
King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful 
pipe, but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red ! 
coat was changed for one of blue and buff", a sword was held j 
in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated with j 
a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, j 
"General Washington." .' 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none ] 
that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed 



RIP VAN WINKLE 39 

changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about 
it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. 
He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad 
face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco- 
smoke, instead of idle speeches ; or Van Bummel, the school- 
master, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In 
place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets 
full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of 
citizens — elections — members of Congress — liberty — Bun- 
ker's hill — heroes of seventy-six — and other words, which 
were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van 
Winkle. 

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his 
rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women 
and children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the 
tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eying him from 
head to foot, with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to 
him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired, " on which side 
he voted ? '' Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short 
but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising on 
tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " whether he was Federal or Demo- 
crat." Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question ; 
when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked 
hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right 
and left with his elbows i s he passed, and planting himself 
before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on 
his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, 
into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, " What brought 
him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at 
his heels ; and whether he meant to breed a riot in the 
village?" 

"Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, " I am a 
poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the 
King, God bless him ! " 



40 THE SKETCH BOOK j 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — "a tory \ \ 
a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him ! " It ; 
was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the '. 
cocked hat restored order ; and having assumed a tenfold : 
austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what ; 
he came there for, and whom he was seeking. The poor man ^ 
humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came i 
there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep ; 
about the tavern. \ 

" Well — who are they ? — name them." ' 

Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, " Where's ] 
Nicholas Vedder?" | 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man 
replied, in a thin, piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder ? why, he is j 
dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden j 
tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all about him, j 
but that's rotten and gone too." I 

" Where's Brom Butcher 1 " 

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war ; 
some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point — others 
say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose, j 
I don't know — he never came back again." j 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" f 

" He went off to the wars, too ; was a great militia general, 
and is now in Congress." 

Rip's heart died away, at hearing of these sad changes in his 
home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. 
Every answer puzzled him too, by treating of such enormous 
lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand : 
war — Congress — Stony Point ; — he had no courage to ask 
after any more friends, but cried out in despair, "Does nobody 
here know Rip Van Winkle ? " 

" Ohj Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three. " Oh, to be 
sure ! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." 



RIP VAN WINKLE 41 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself as he 
went up the mountain ; apparently as lazy, and certainly as 
ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He 
doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or an- 
other man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the 
cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name 1 

"God knows ! " exclaimed he at his wit's end ; "I'm not my- 
self — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's 
somebody else, got into my shoes — I was myself last night, 
but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, 
and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell 
what's my name, or who I am ! " 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink 
significantly, and tap their lingers against their foreheads. 
There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keep- 
ing the old fellow from doing mischief; at the very suggestion 
of which, the self-important man with the cocked hat retired 
with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, 
comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the 
gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, 
frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, 
"hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." The 
name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, 
all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. 

" What is your name, my good woman 1 " asked he. 

"Judith Gardenier." 

" And your father's name ? " 

"Ah, poor man. Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's 
twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and 
never has been heard of since, — his dog came home without 
him ; but whether he shot himself, or was earned away by the 
Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one more question to ask ; but he put it with 
a faltering voice : — 



42 THE SKETCH BOOK 

" Where's your mother ? " 

Oh, she, too, had died but a short time since; she broke a 
blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England pedler. 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. 
The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught 
his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father ! " 
cried he — ''Young Rip Van Winkle once — old Rip Van 
Winkle now — Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle ! " 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 
among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under 
it in his face for a moment exclaimed, " Sure enough ! it is Rip 
Van Winkle — it is himself. Welcome home again, old neigh- 
bor. Why, where have you been all these twenty long years ? " 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had 
been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when 
they heard it ; some were seen to wink at each other, and put 
their tongues in their cheeks; and the self-important man in 
the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned 
to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook 
his head — upon which there was a general shaking of the head 
throughout the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter 
Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He 
was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one 
of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most 
ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the 
wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He 
recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most 
satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a 
fact, handed down from his ancestor, the historian, that the 
Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by strange ] 
beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, 
the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of 
vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Halfmoon ; 



RIP VAN WINKLE 43 

being permitted in tliis way to revisit the scenes of iiis enter- 
prise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river and the great 
city called by his name. That his father had once seen them 
in their old Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of 
the mountain ; and that he himself had heard, one summer 
afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and re- 
turned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's 
daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, 
well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, 
whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb 
upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto 
of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to 
work on the farm ; but evinced an hereditary disposition to 
attend to anything else but his business. 

Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon found 
many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the 
wear and tear of time ; and preferred making friends among the 
rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. 

Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that 
happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his 
place once more on the bench, at the inn door, and was rever- 
enced as one of the patriarchs of the village,, and a chronicle of 
the old times " before the war." It was some time before he 
could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to 
comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his 
torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war — that 
the country had thrown off the yoke of old England — and that, 
instead of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he 
was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was 
no politician ; the changes of states and empires made but little 
impression on him ; but there was one species of despotism under 
which he had long groaned, and that was — petticoat govern- 
ment. Happily, that was at an end : he had got his neck out 



44 THE SKETCH BOOK 

of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out whenever 
he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. 
Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his 
head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which 
might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or 
joy at his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived, at 
Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on 
some points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing 
to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down pre- 
cisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or 
child in the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some always 
pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that "Rip had 
been out of his head, and that this was one point on which he 
always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, 
almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day, they 
never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the 
Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at 
their game of ninepins ; and it is a common wish of all hen- 
pecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy 
on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out 
of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 

NOTE 

The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. 
Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor 
Frederick der Rothbart and the Kypphauser mountain ; the subjoined 
note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an 
absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity. 

" The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but 
nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old 
Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events and 
appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, 
in the villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well authenti- 
cated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle 
aiyself, who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable old man, and 
so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point, that I think 
no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain; nay, 



RIP VAN WINKLE 45 

I have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice, 
and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, 
therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. 

"D. K." 
POSTSCRIPT 

The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr. 
Knickerbocker: 

The Kaatsberg or Catskill mountains have always been a region full 
of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, w^ho influ- 
enced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, and 
sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw 
spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the 
Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night to open and 
shut them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies. 
and cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly 
propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and 
morning dcAV, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake 
after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air; until, dis- 
solved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing 
the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch 
an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as 
ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst 
of its web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys! 

In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou 
or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill mountains, 
and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and 
vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume the form of 
a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase 
through tangled forests and among ragged rocks, and then spring off 
with a loud ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling 
precipice or raging torrent. 

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great rock 
I or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the flowering 
vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which abound in 
its neighborhood, is known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near 
the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern, with 
water-snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which 
lie on the surface. This place was held in great awe by the Indians, 
insomuch that the boldest hunter would not pursue his game within 
its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had lost his 
way penetrated to the Garden Rock, where he beheld a number of 
gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he seized and 
made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he let it fall among the 
rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, which washed him away and 
swept him down precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the 
stream made its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present 
day, being the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaterskill. 



46 THE SKETCH BOOK 



ENGLISH WRITEKS ON AMERICA 

" Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing her- 
self like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks ; 
methinks I see her as an eagle, mewing her mighty youth, and kindling 
her endazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam." 

Milton on the Liberty of the Press. 

It is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the literary 
animosity daily growing up between England and America. 
Great curiosity has been awakened of late with respect to 
the United States, and the London press has teemed with 
volumes of travels through the Republic ; but they seem 
intended to difluse error rather than knowledge ; and so 
successful have they been, that, notwithstanding the constant 
intercourse between the nations, there is no people concerning 
whom the great mass of the British public have less pure in- 
formation, or entertain more numerous prejudices. 

English travellers are the best and the worst in the world. 
Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can equal 
them for profound and philosophical views of society, or faithful 
and graphical descriptions of external objects ; but when either 
the interest or reputation of their own country comes in colli- 
sion with that of another, they go to the opposite extreme, and 
forget their usual probity and candor, in the indulgence of 
splenetic remark, and an illiberal spirit of ridicule. 

Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the more 
remote the country described. I would place implicit confidence 
in an Englishman's description of the regions beyond th^ cata- 
racts of the Nile ; of unknown islands in the Yellow Sea ; of 
the interior of India ; or of any other tract which other travellers 
might be apt to picture out with the illusions of their fancies. 
But I would cautiously receive his account of his immediate 
neighbors, and of those nations with which he is in habits of 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 47 

most frequent intercourse. However I might be disposed to 
trust his probity, I dare not trust his prejudices. 

It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be visited 
by the worst kind of English travellers. While men of philo- 
sophical spirit and cultivated minds have been sent from England 
to ransack the poles, to penetrate the deserts, and to study the 
manners and customs of barbarous nations, with which she can 
have no permanent intercourse of profit or pleasure, it has been 
left to the broken-down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, the 
wandering mechanic, the Manchester and Birmingham agent, to 
be her oracles respecting America. From such sources she is 
content to receive her information respecting a country in a 
singular state of moral and physical development — a country 
in which one of the greatest political experiments in the history 
of the world is now performing ; and which presents the most 
profound and momentous studies to the statesman and the 
philosopher. 

That such men should give prejudicial accounts of America 
is not a matter of surprise. The themes it offers for contempla- 
tion are too vast and elevated for their capacities. The national 
character is yet in a state of fermentation : it may have its 
frothiness and sediment, but its ingredients are sound and 
wholesome ; it has already given proofs of powerful and gen- 
erous qualities ; and the whole promises to settle down into 
something substantially excellent. But the causes which are 
operating to strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily indication 
of admirable properties, are all lost upon these purblind ob- 
servers ; who are only affected by the little asperities incident 
to its present situation. They are capable of judging only of 
the surface of things ; of those matters which come in contact 
with their private interests and personal gratifications. They 
miss some of the snug conveniences and petty comforts which 
belong to an old, highly-finished, and over-populous state of 
society; where the ranks of useful labor are crowded, and 



48 THE SKETCH BOOK 

many earn a painful and servile subsistence by studying the 
very caprices of appetite and self-indulgence. These minor 
comforts, however, are all-important in the estimation of nar- 
row minds ; which either do not perceive, or will not acknowl- 
edge, that they are more than counterbalanced among us, by 
great and generally diffused blessings. 

They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some unrea- 
sonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have pictured 
America to themselves an El Dorado, where gold and silver 
abounded, and the natives were lacking in sagacity, and where 
they were to become strangely and suddenly rich, in some un- 
foreseen but easy manner. The same weakness of mind that 
indulges absurd expectations produces petulance in disappoint- 
ment. Such persons become embittered against the country on 
finding that there, as everywhere else, a man must sow before 
he can reap ; must win wealth by industry and talent ; and 
must contend with the common difficulties of nature and the 
shrewdness of an intelligent and enterprising people. 

Perhaps, through mistaken or ill-directed hospitality, or from 
the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the stranger 
prevalent among my countrymen, they may have been treated 
with unwonted respect in America; and, having been accus- 
tomed all their lives to consider themselves below the surface 
of good society, and brought up in a servile feeling of inferiority, 
they become arrogant on the common boon of civility ; they attrib- 
ute to the lowliness of others their owm elevation ; and under- 
rate a society where there are no artificial distinctions, and 
where, by any chance, such individuals as themselves can rise 
to consequence. 

One would suppose, however, that information coming from 
such sources, on a subject where the truth is so desirable, would 
be received with caution by the censors of the press ; that the 
motives of these men, their veracity, their opportunities of 
inquiry and observation, and their capacities for judging cor 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 49 

rectly, would be rigorously scrutinized before their evidence 
was admitted, in such sweeping extent, against a kindred 
nation. The very reverse, however, is the case, and it fur- 
nishes a striking instance of human inconsistency. Nothing 
can surpass the vigilance with which English critics will 
examine the credibility of the traveller who publishes an 
account of some distant and comparatively unimportant coun- 
try. How warily will they compare the measurements of a 
pyramid, or the descriptions of a ruin ! and how sternly will 
they censure any inaccuracy in these contributions of merely 
curious knowledge ! while they will receive, with eagerness 
and unhesitating faith, the gross misrepresentations of coarse 
and obscure writers, concerning a country with which their 
own is placed in the most important and delicate relations. 
Nay, they will even make these apocryphal volumes text-books, 
on which to enlarge, with a zeal and an ability worthy of a 
more generous cause. 

I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and hackneyed 
topic; nor should I have adverted to it, but for the undue 
interest apparently taken in it by my countrymen, and certain 
injurious effects which I apprehended it might produce upon the 
national feeling. We attach too much consequence to these 
attacks. They cannot do us any essential injury. The tissue 
of misrepresentations attempted to be woven round us are like 
cobwebs woven round the limbs of an infant giant. Our coun- 
try continually outgrows them. One falsehood after another 
falls off of itself. We have but to live on, and every day we 
live a whole volume of refutation. 

All the writers of England united, if we could for a moment 
suppose their great minds stooping to so unworthy a combina- 
tion, could not conceal our rapidly-growing importance and 
matchless prosperity. They could not conceal that these are 
owing, not merely to physical and local, but also to moral 
causes — to the political liberty, the general diffusion of 



50 THE SKETCH BOOK 

knowledge, the prevalence of sound moral and religious prin- 
ciples, which give force and sustained energy to the character 
of a people, and which, in fact,^ have been the acknowledged and 
wonderful supporters of their own national power and glory. 

But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions of Eng- 
land? Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected by the 
contumely she has endeavored to cast upon us ? It is not in 
the opinion of England alone that honor lives and reputation 
has its being. The world at large is the arbiter of a nation's 
fame : with its thousand eyes it witnesses a nation's deeds, and 
from their collective testimony is national glory or national dis- 
grace established. 

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little 
importance whether England does us justice or not; it is, 
perhaps, of far more importance to herself. She is instilling 
anger and resentment into the bosom of a youthful nation, to 
grow with its growth, and strengthen with its strength. If in 
America, as some of her writers are laboring to convince her, 
she is hereafter to find an invidious rival and a gigantic foe, 
she may thank those very writers for having provoked rival- 
ship and irritated hostility. Every one knows the all-pervad- 
ing influence of literature at the present day, and how much 
the opinions and passions of mankind are under its control. 
The mere contests of the sword are temporary ; their wounds 
are but in the flesh, and it is the pride of the generous to for- 
give and forget them ; but the slanders of the pen pierce to the 
heart ; they rankle longest in the noblest spirits ; they dwell 
ever present in the mind, and render it morbidly sensitive to 
the most trifling collision. It is but seldom that any one overt 
act produces hostilities between two nations ; there exists, most 
commonly, a previous jealousy and ill-will, a predisposition to 
take ofifence. Trace these to their cause, and how often will 
they be found to originate in the mischievous effusions of mer- 
cenary writers, who, secure in their closets, and for ignominious 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 51 

bread, concoct and circulate the venom that is to inflame the 
generous and the brave ! 

I am not laying too much 'stress upon this point; for it 
applies most emphatically to our particular case. Over no 
nation does the press hold a more absolute control than over 
the people of America; for the universal education of the 
poorest classes makes every individual a reader. There is 
nothing published in England on the subject of our country that 
does not circulate through every part of it. There is not a 
calumny dropped from English pen, nor an unworthy sarcasm 
uttered by an English statesman, that does not go to blight 
good-will, and add to the mass of latent resentment. Possess- 
ing, then, as England does, the fountain-head whence the litera- 
ture of the language flows, how completely is it in her power, 
and how truly is it her duty, to make it the medium of amiable 
and magnanimous feeling — a stream where the two nations 
might meet together and drink in peace and kindness. Should 
she, however, persist in turning it to waters of bitterness, the time 
may come when she may repent her folly. The present friend- 
ship of America may be of but little moment to her ; but the 
future destinies of that country do not admit of a doubt ; over 
those of England there lower some shadows of uncertainty. 
Should, then, a day of gloom arrive — should those reverses 
overtake her, from which the proudest empires have not been 
exempt — she may look back with regret at her infatuation, 
in repulsing from her side a nation she might have grappled 
to her bosom, and thus destroying her only chance for real 
friendship beyond the boundaries of her own dominions. 

There is a general impression in England, that the people of 
the United States are inimical to the parent country. It is 
one of the errors which have been diligently propagated by de- 
signing writers. There is, doubtless, considerable political hos- 
tility, and a general soreness at the illiberality of the English 
press ; but, generally speaking, the prepossessions of the people 



52 THE SKETCH BOOK 

are strongly in favor of England. Indeed, at one time they 
amounted, in many parts of the Union, to an absurd degree of 
bigotry. The bare name of Englishman was a passport to the 
confidence and hospitality of every family, and too often gave 
a transient currency to the worthless and the ungrateful. 
Throughout the country there was something of enthusiasm 
connected with the idea of England. We looked to it with a 
hallowed feeling of tenderness and veneration, as the land of 
our forefathers — the august repository of the monuments and 
antiquities of our race — the birthplace and mausoleum of the 
sages and heroes of our paternal history. After our own coun- 
try, there was none in whose glory we more delighted — none 
whose good opinion we were more anxious to possess — none 
toward which our hearts yearned with such throbbings of warm 
consanguinity. Even during the late war, whenever there was 
the least opportunity for kind feelings to spring forth, it was 
the delight of the generous spirits of our country to show that, 
in the midst of hostilities, they still kept alive the sparks of 
future friendship. 

Is all this to be at an end ? Is this golden band of kindred 
sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken forever? 
Perhaps it is for the best — it may dispel an illusion which 
might have kept us in mental vassalage; which might have 
interfered occasionally with our true interests, and prevented 
the growth of proper national pride. But it is hard to give up 
the kindred tie ! and there are feelings dearer than interest — 
closer to the heart than pride — that will still make us cast 
back a look of regret as we wander farther and farther from 
the paternal roof, and lament the waywardness of the parent 
that would repel the affections of the child. 

Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of 
England may be in this system of aspersion, recrimination on 
our part would be equally ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt 
and spirited vindication of our country, nor the keenest castiga- 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 53 

tion of her slanderers — but I allude to a disposition to retaliate 
in kind, to retort sarcasm and inspire prejudice, which seems to 
be spreading widely among our writers. Let us guard particu- 
larly against such a temper ; for it would double the evil, in- 
stead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is so easy and inviting 
as the retort of abuse and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry and an 
unprofitable contest. It is the alternative of a morbid mind, 
fretted into petulance, rather than warmed into indignation. 
If England is willing to permit the mean jealousies of trade, or 
the rancorous animosities of politics, to deprave the integrity of 
her press, and poison the fountain of public opinion, let us be- 
ware of her example. She may deem it her interest to diffuse 
error and engender antipathy, for the purpose of checking emi- 
gration : we have no purpose of the kind to serve. Neither 
have we any spirit of national jealousy to gratify ; for as yet, 
in all our rivalships with England, we are the rising and the 
gaining party. There can be no end to answer, therefore, but 
the gratification of resentment — a mere spirit of retaliation — 
and even that is impotent. Our retorts are never republished 
in England ; they fall short, therefore, of their aim ; but they 
foster a querulous and peevish temper among our writers ; they 
sour the sweet flow of our early literature, and sow thorns and 
brambles among its blossoms. What is still worse, they circu- 
late through our own country, and, as far as they have effect, 
excite virulent national prejudices. This last is the evil most 
especially to be deprecated. Governed, as we are, entirely by 
public opinion, the utmost care should be taken to preser ""e the 
purity of the 'public mind. Knowledge is power, and truih is 
knowledge; whoever, therefore, knowingly propagates a preju- 
dice, wilfully saps the foundation of his country's strength. 

The members of a republic, above all other men, should be 
candid and dispassionate. They are, individually, portions of 
the sovereign mind and sovereign will, and should be enabled 
to come to all questions of national concern with calm and un- 



54 THE SKETCH BOOK \ 

\ 

biassed judgments. From the peculiar nature of our relations j 
with England, we must have more frequent questions of a dif- I 
ficult and delicate character with her, than with any other . 
nation, — questions that affect the most acute and excitable : 
feelings : and as, in the adjustment of these, our national I 
measures must ultimately be determined by popular sentiment, | 
we cannot be too anxiously attentive to purify it from all latent i 
passion or prepossession. I 

Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from every . 
portion of the earth, we should receive all with impartiality. \ 
It should be our pride to exhibit an example of one nation, at \ 
least, destitute of national antipathies, and exercising, not ' 
merely the overt acts of hospitality, but those more rare and ; 
noble courtesies which spring from liberality of opinion. ; 

What have we to do with national prejudices? They are '• 
the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude and 
ignorant ages, when nations knew but little of each other, and 
looked beyond their own boundaries with distrust and hostility. \ 
We, on the contrary,' have sprung into national existence in an ; 
enlightened and philosophic age, when the different parts of 
the habitable world, and the various branches of the human ^ 
family, have been indefatigably studied and made known to 
each other ; and we forego the advantages of our birth, if we 
do not shake off the national prejudices, as we would the local 
superstitions, of the old world. 

But above all let us not be influenced by any angry feelings, 
so far a? to shut our eyes to the perception of what is really 
excelle;it and amiable in the English character. We are a 
youn% people, necessarily an imitative one, and must take our 
examples and models, in a great degree, from the existing na- 
tions of Europe. There is no country more worthy of our study 
than England. The spirit of her consti|;ution is most analo- 
gous to ours. The manners of her people — their intellectual 
activity, their freedom of opinion, their habits of thinking on 



ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA bb 

those subjects which concern the dearest interests and most 
sacred charities of private life — are all congenial to the Ameri- 
can character ; and, in fact, are all intrinsically excellent : for 
it is in the moral feeling of the people that the deep founda- 
tions of British prosperity are laid ; and however the super- 
structure may be timeworn or overrun by abuses, there must 
be something solid in the basis, admirable in the materials, and 
stable in the structure of an edifice that so long has towered 
unshaken amidst the tempests of the world. 

Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding all 
feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the illiberality 
of British authors, to speak of the English nation without prej- 
udice, and with determined candor. While they rebuke the 
indiscriminating bigotry with which some of our countrymen 
admire and imitate everything English, merely because it is 
English, let them frankly point out what is really worthy of 
approbation. We may thus place England before us as a per- 
petual volume of reference, wherein are recorded sound deduc- 
tions from ages of experience ; and while we avoid the errors 
and absurdities which may have crept into the page, we may 
draw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, wherewith to 
strengthen and to embellish our national character. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 

Oh ! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural pleasures past ! 

COWPBR. 

The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the Eng- 
lish character must not confine his observations to the metrop- 
olis. He must go forth into the country ; he must sojourn in 
villages and hamlets ; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses, 



56 THE SKETCH BOOK 

cottages ; he must wander through parks and gardens, along 
hedges and green lanes ; he must loiter about country churches 
attend wakes and fairs, and other rural festivals ; and cope with 
the people in all their conditions, and all their habits and 

humors. j 

In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and ! 

fashion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of ele- ^ 

gant and intelligent society, and the country is inhabited almost \ 

entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on the contrary, ■ 

the metropolis is a mere gathering-place, or general rendezvous, \ 

of the polite classes, where they devote a small portion of the : 

year to a hurry of gayety and dissipation, and, having indulged I 
this kind of carnival, return again to the apparently more 

congenial habits of rural life. The various orders of society ' 

are therefore diff^ised over the whole surface of the kingdom, ; 

and the most retired neighborhoods afford specimens of the ■ 

different ranks. | 

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feel- ! 

ing. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, i 
and a keen relish for the pleasures and employments of the 

country. This passion seems inherent in them. Even the in- ' 

habitants of cities, born and brought up among brick walls and \ 

bustling streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and evince - 

a tact for rural occupation. The merchant has his snug re- : 

treat in the vicinity of the metropolis, where he often displays i 

as much pride and zeal in the cultivation of his flower-garden \ 

and the maturing of his fruits as he does in the conduct of his ' 

business and the success of a commercial enterprise. Even those ■ 

less fortunate individuals who are doomed to pass their lives in | 

the midst of din and traffic contrive to have something that '■ 
shall remind them of the green aspect of nature. In the most 

dark and dingy quarters of the city the drawing-room window - 

resembles frequently a bank of flowers ; every spot capable of ; 

vegetation has its grass-plot and flower-bed, and every square ; 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 57 

its mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste and gleaming 
with refreshing verdure. 

Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to form 
an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He is either 
absorbed in business or distracted by the thousand engagements 
that dissipate time, thought, and feeling in this huge metrop- 
olis. He has, therefore, too commonly, a look of hurry and 
abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he is on the point of 
going somewhere else ; at the moment he is talking on one 
subject his mind is wandering to another ; and while paying a 
friendly visit he is calculating how he shall economize time so 
as to pay the other visits allotted in the morning. An immense 
metropolis, like London, is calculated to make men selfish and 
uninteresting. In their casual and transient meetings they can 
but deal briefly in commonplaces. They present but the cold 
superfices of character — its rich and genial qualities have no 
time to be warmed into a flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to his 
natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formal- 
ities and negative civilities of town, throws off his habits of 
shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He manages 
to collect round him all the conveniences and elegancies of polite 
life and to banish its restraints. His country-seat abounds with 
every requisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful gratifica- 
tion, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, 
and sporting implements of all kinds are at hand. He puts no 
constraint either upon his guests or himself, but, in the true 
spirit of hospitality, provides the means of enjoyment, and leaves 
every one to partake according to his inclination. 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in 
what is called landscape gardening, is unrivalled. They have 
studied Nature intently, and discovered an exquisite sense of 
her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. Those charms 
which, in other countries, she lavishes in wild solitudes are 



58 THE SKETCH BOOK \ 

here assembled round the haunts of domestic life. They seem ; 
to have caught her coy and furtive graces, and spread them, ; 
like witchery, about their rural abodes. ! 

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of Eng- ' 
lish park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of vivid \ 
green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up 
rich piles of foliage. The solemn pomp of groves and woodland ' 
glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds across them ; the 
hare, bounding away to the covert ; or the pheasant, suddenly ] 
bursting upon the wing. The brook, taught to wind in natu- 
ral meanderings or expand into a glassy lake ; the sequestered 
pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleep- : 
ing on its bosom and the trout roaming fearlessly about its lim- i 
pid waters ; while some rustic temple, or sylvan statue, grown - 
green and dank with age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the \ 
seclusion. 

These are but a few of the features of park scenery; but i 
what most delights me is the creative talent with which the '\ 
English decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle life. The : 
rudest habitation, the most unpromising and scanty portion of \ 
land, in the hands of an Englishman of taste, becomes a little i 
paradise. With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at once j 
upon its capabilities, and pictures in his mind the future land- | 
scape. The sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand, ! 
and yet the operations of art which produce the effect are I 
scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and training of some \ 
trees ; the cautious pruning of others ; the nice distribution of | 
flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage ; the introduc- \ 
tion of a green slope of velvet turf ; the partial opening to a j 
peep of blue distance or silver gleam of water ; — all these are ; 
managed with a delicate tact, a pervading yet quiet assiduity, \ 
like the magic touchings with which a painter finishes up a \ 
favorite picture. \ 

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the j 

\ 

i 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 59 

country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural 
economy that descends to the lowest class. The very laborer, 
with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends to 
their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grass-plot before the 
door, the little flower-bed bordered with snug box, the woodbine 
trained up against the wall and hanging its blossoms about the 
lattice, the pot of flowers in the window, the holly providently 
planted about the house to cheat winter of its dreariness, and 
to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the fireside, 
— all these bespeak the influence of taste flowing down from 
high sources and pervading the lowest levels of the public mind. 
If ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must 
be the cottage of an English peasant. 

The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the 
English has had a great and salutary effect upon the national 
character. I do not know a finer race of men than the English 
gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effeminacy which char- 
acterize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit a union 
of elegance and strength, a robustness of frame and freshness of 
complexion, which I am inclined to attribute to their living so 
much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating 
recreations of the country. The hardy exercises produce also a 
healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplic- 
ity of manners, which even the follies and dissipations of the 
town cannot easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In 
the countiy, too, the different orders of society seem to approach 
more freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate favorably 
upon each other. The distinctions between them do not appear 
to be so marked and impassable as in the cities. The manner 
in which property has been distributed into small estates and 
farms has established a regular gradation from the noblemen, 
througli the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and sub- 
stantial farmers, down to the laboring peasantry, and, while it 
has thus banded the extremes of society together, has infused 



60 THE SKETCH BOOK 

into each intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it 
must be confessed, is not so universally the case at present as 
it was formerly ; the larger estates having, in late years of dis- 
tress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the country, 
almost annihilated the sturdy race of small farmers. These, 
however, I believe, are but casual breaks in the general system I 
have mentioned. 

In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It 
leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty ; 
it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon 
by the purest and most elevating of external influences. Such 
a man may be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The 
man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an inter- 
course with the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he 
casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside 
his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of 
rank, and to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of com- 
mon life. Indeed, the very amusements of the country bring 
men more and more together, and the soimds of hound and horn 
blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great rea- 
son why the nobility and gentry are more popular among the in- 
ferior orders in England than they are in any other country, and 
why the latter have endured so many excessive pressures and 
extremities, without repining more generally at the unequal 
distribution of fortune and privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be 
attributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature 
— the frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; those incom-j- 
parable descriptions of Nature that abound in the British poets, 
that have continued down from " The Flower and the Leaf" of 
Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and I 
fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of otherj 
countries appear as if they had paid Nature an occasional visit,!, 
and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the Britisbi 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 61 

poets have lived and revelled with her — they have wooed her 
in her most secret haimts — they have watched her minutest 
caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf 
could not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could not 
patter in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the 
humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morn- 
ing, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate 
observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality. 

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupa- 
tions has been wonderful on the face of the country. A great 
part of the island is rather level, and would be monotonous, 
were it not for the charms of culture ; but it is studded and 
gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, and embroidered 
with parks and gardens. It does not abound in grand and sub- 
lime prospects, but rather in little home scenes of rural repose 
and sheltered quiet. Every antique farm-house and moss-grown 
cottage is a picture ; and as the roads are continually winding, 
and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is de- 
lighted by a continual succession of small landscapes of capti- 
vating loveliness. 

The great charm, however, of English scenery is the moral 
feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind 
with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober, well-established principles, 
of hoary usage and reverend custom. Everything seems to be 
the growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. The old 
church of remote architecture, with its low, massive portal ; its 
Gothic tower ; its windows rich with tracery and painted glass, 
in scrupulous preservation ; its stately monuments of warriors 
and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of 
the soil ; its tombstones, recording successive generations of 
sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plough the same fields, 
and kneel at the same altar ; the parsonage, a quaint irregular 
pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in the tastes of 
various ages and occupants ; the stile and foot-path leading from 



62 THE SKETCH BOOK 



I 



the church-yard, across pleasant fields, and along shady hedge- 
rows, according to an immemorial right of way ; the neighbor- 
ing village, with its venerable cottages, its public green sheltered 
by trees, under which the forefathers of the present race have 
sported ; the antique family mansion, standing apart in some 
little rural domain, but looking down with a protecting air on 
the surrounding scene, — all these common features of English 
landscape evince a calm and settled security, and hereditary 
transmission of homebred virtues and local attachments, that 
speak deeply and touchingiy for the moral character of the 
nation. 

It is a pleasing sight, of a Sunday morning, when the bell is 
sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold the 
peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces and modest 
cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to 
church ; but it is still more pleasing to see them in the even- 
ings, gathering about their cottage doors and appearing to exult 
in the humble comforts and embellishments which their own 
hands have spread around them. 

It is this sweet home feeling, this settled repose of affection 
in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the steadi- 
est virtues and purest enjoyments; and I cannot close these 
desultory remarks better than by quoting the words of a 
modern English poet who has depicted it with remarkable 
felicity : — 

Through each gradation, from the castled hall, 
The city dome, the villa crowned with shade, 
But chief from modest mansions numberless, 
In town or hamlet, shelt'riug middle life, 
Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof 'd shed ; 
This western isle hath long been famed for scenes 
Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place ; 
Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove 
(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard), 
Can centre in a little quiet nest 
All that desire would tiy for through the earth ; 



THE BROKEN HEART 63 

That can, the world eluding, be itself 
A world enjoyed ; that wants no witnesses 
But its own sharers, and approving Heaven; 
That, like a tiower deep hid in rocky cleft, 
Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky.° 



THE BROKEN HEART 

I never heard 
Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. 

MiDDLETON. 

It is a common practice with those who have outlived the 
susceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought up in the 
gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, 
and to treat the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of 
novelists and poets. My observations on human nature have 
induced me to think otherwise. They have convinced me that, 
however the surface of the character may be chilled and frozen 
by the cares of the world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the 
arts of society, still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths 
of the coldest bosom, which, when once enkindled, become im- 
petuous, and are sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed, 
I am a true believer in the blind deity, and go to the full extent 
of his doctrines. Shall I confess it? — I believe in broken 
hearts, and the possibility of dying of disappointed love ! I 
do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my own 
sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers down many a lovely 
woman into an early grave. 

Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature 
leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love 
is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the 
intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space 
in the world's thought and dominion over his fellow-men. But 



64 * THE SKETCH BOOK 

a woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart 
is her world : it is there her ambition strives for empire ; it is 
there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth 
her sympathies on adventure ; she embarks her whole soul in 
the traffic of affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless, 
for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 

To a man, the disappointment of love may occasion some 
bitter pangs ; it wounds some feelings of tenderness, it blasts 
some prospects of felicity ; but he is an active being — he may 
dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may 
plunge into the tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene of disappoint- 
ment be too full of painful associations, he can shift his abode 
at will," and taking, as it were, the wings of the morning, can 
" fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest." 

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and medita- 
tive life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and 
feelings ; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where 
shall she look for consolation ? Her lot is to be wooed and won ; 
and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that 
has been captured and sacked and abandoned and left desolate. 

How many bright eyes grow dim, how many soft cheeks 
grow pale, how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, 
and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness ! As 
the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal 
the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so is it the nature of 
woman to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. 
The love of a delicate female is always shy and silent. Even 
when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when 
otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there 
lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. With 
her, the desire of the heart has failed — the great charm of 
existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises 
which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide 
of life in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is 



THE BROKEN HEART 65 

broken — the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by mel- 
ancholy dreams — "dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her 
enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury. Look 
for her after a little while, and you find friendship weeping over 
her untimely grave, and wondering that one who but lately 
glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty should so 
speedily be brought down to " darkness and the worm." You 
will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposition, 
that laid her low ; but no one knows of the mental malady 
which previously sapped her strength, and made her so easy a 
prey to the spoiler. 

She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the 
grove, graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the 
worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering, 
when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it droop- 
ing its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf, until, 
wasted and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the 
forest ; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in 
vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have smit- 
ten it with decay. 

I have seen many instances of women running to waste and 
self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost 
as if they had been exhaled to heaven, and have repeatedly 
fancied that I could trace their deaths through the various de- 
clensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, 
until I reached the first symptom of disappointed love. But 
an instance of the kind was lately told to me ; the circum- 
stances are well known in the country where they happened, 
and I shall but give them in the manner in wdiich they were 
related. 

Every one must recollect the tragical story of young E — — , 
the Irish patriot; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. 
During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and 
executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep im- 



66 THE SKETCH BOOK 

pression on public sympathy. He was so young, so intelligent, 
so generous, so brave — so everything that we are apt to like 
in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty 
and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled 
the charge of treason against his country, the eloquent vindica- 
tion of his name, and his pathetic appeal to posterity in the 
hopeless hour of condemnation, — all these entered deeply into 
every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern 
policy that dictated his execution. 

But there was one heart whose anguish it would be impos- 
sible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes he had 
won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the 
daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him 
with the disinterested fervor of a woman s first and early love. 
When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when, 
blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around 
his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very suffer- 
ings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of 
his foes, what must have been the agony of her whose whole 
soul was occupied by his image ? Let those tell who have had 
the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the 
being they most loved on earth — who have sat at its thresh- 
old, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, whence all that 
was most lovely and loving had departed. 

But then the horrors of such a grave ! — so frightful, so dis- 
honored ! There was nothing for memory to dwell on that 
could soothe the pang of separation — none of those tender, 
though melancholy circumstances which endear the parting 
scene — nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent 
like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour 
of anguish. 

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had in- 
curred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, 
and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sym* 



THE BROKEN HEART 67 

pathy and kind ojSioes of friends have reached a spirit so shocked 
and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want 
of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous 
sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were 
paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led 
into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and 
amusement to dissipate her grief and wean her from the tragi- 
cal story of her loves. But it was all in vain. There are some 
strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul — which 
penetrate to the vital seat of happiness, and blast it, never 
again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to fre- 
quent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there as 
in the depths of solitude, walking about in a sad revery, appar- 
ently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with 
her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of 
friendship, and " heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he 
never so wisely." 

The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquer- 
ade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more 
striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene — to find it 
wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all around is 
gay — to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and look- 
ing so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the 
poor heart into momentary fbrgetfulness of sorrow. After stroll- 
ing through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of 
utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orches- 
tra, and, looking about for some time with a vacant air, that 
showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began, with 
the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive 
air. She had an exquisite voice ; but on this occasion it was so 
simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of wretched- 
ness — that she drew a crowd, mute and silent, around her and 
Dvelted every one into tears. 

The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great 



68 THE SKETCH BOOK 

interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely 
won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, 
and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove 
affectionate to' the living. She declined his attentions, for her 
thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her 
former lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solic- 
ited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by 
her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute 
and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness 
of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her 
hand, though with the solemn assurance that her heart was un- 
alterably another's. 

He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene 
might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an 
amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy 
one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy 
that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, 
but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the vic- 
tim of a broken heart. 

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, com 
posed the following lines : — 

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps 

And lovers around her are sighing: 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 

For her heart in his grave is lying. 

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, 

Every note which he loved awaking — 
Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains, 

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 

He had lived for his love — for his country he died, 
They were all that to life had entwined him — 

Nor sooii shall the tears of his country be dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him ! 

Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 

When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, 

From her own loved island of sorrow! 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 69 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 

*• If that severe doom of Synesius be true, — ' It is a greater offence to 
steal dead men's labor, than their clothes,' — what shall become of most ■ 
writers?" 

Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 1 

I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, | 

and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which Nature ! 

seemed to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, should teem ; 

with voluminous productions. As a man travels on, however, i 

in the journey of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, and | 

he is continually finding out some very simple cause for some '■ 
great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrina- 
tions about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which 

unfolded to me some of the mysteries of the book-making craft, ! 
and at once put an end to my astonishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the great saloons of • 

the British Museum, with that listlessness with which one is ' 
apt to saunter about a museum in warm weather ; sometimes 

lolling over the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the i 

hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, i 

with nearly equal success, to comprehend the allegorical paint- ; 

ings on the lofty ceilings. Whilst I was gazing about in this \ 

idle way my attention was attracted to a distant door at the end j 

of a suite of appartments. It was closed, but every now and then j 

it would open, and some strange-favored being, generally clothed i 

in black, wouid steal forth and glide through the rooms without ' 
noticing any of the surrounding objects. There was an air of 
mystery about this that piqued my languid curiosity, and I deter- 
mined to attempt the passage of that strait and to explore the 

unknown regions beyond. The door yielded to my hand with | 
that facility with which the portals of enchanted castles yield to 



70 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the f'.dveiiturous knight-errant. I found myself m a spacious 
chamber, surrounded with great cases of venerable books. 
Above the cases, and just under tlie cornice, were arranged a 
great number of black-looking portraits of ancient authors. 
About the room were placed long tables, with stands for read- 
ing and writing, at which sat many pale, studious personages, 
poring intently over dusty volumes, rummaging among mouldy 
manuscripts, and taking copious notes of their contents, A 
hushed stillness reigned through this mysterious apartment, 
excepting that you might hear the racing of pens over sheets 
of paper, and occasionally the deep sigh of one of these sages 
as he shifted his position to turn over the page of an old folio, 
doubtless arising from that hoUowness and flatulency incident 
to learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write some- 
thing on a small slip of paper and ring a bell, whereupon a 
familiar would appear, take the paper in profound silence, glide 
out of the room, and return shortly loaded with ponderous 
tomes, upon which the other would fall, tooth and nail, with 
famished voracity. I had no longer a doubt that I had happened 
upon a body of magi, deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences. 
The scene reminded me of an old Arabian tale of a philosopher 
shut up in an enchanted library, in the bosom of a mountain, 
which opened only once a year ; where he made the spirits of the 
place bring him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that 
at the end of the year, when the magic portal once more swung 
open on its hinges, he issued forth so versed in forbidden lore 
as to be able to soar above the heads of the multitude, and to 
control the powers of Nature. 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to one of 
the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged an 
interpretation of the strange scene before me. A few words 
were sufficient for the purpose. I found i;hat these mysterious 
personages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were principally au' 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 71 

thors, and in the very act of manufecturing books. I was, in 
fact, in the reading-room of the great British Library, an im- 
mense collection of volumes of all ages and languages, many of 
which are now forgotten, and most of which are seldom read — one 
of these sequestered pools of obsolete literature to which modern 
authors repair, and draw buckets full of classic lore, or "pure 
English undefiled," wherewith to swell their own scanty rills of 
thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner 
and watched the process of this book manufactory. I noticed 
one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none but the most 
worm-eaten volumes, printed in black letter. He was evidently 
constructing some work of profound erudition, that would be 
purchased by every man who washed to be thought learned, 
placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his library or laid open upon 
his table — but never read. I observed him, now and then, 
draw a large fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw ; 
whether it was his dinner, or whether he was endeavoring to 
keep off that exhaustion of the stomach produced by much pon- 
dering over dry works, I leave to harder students than myself 
to determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright-colored clothes, 
with a chirping, gossiping expression of countenance, who had 
all the appearance of an author on good terms with his book- 
seller. After considering him attentively, I recognized in him 
a diligent getter-up of miscellaneous works, which bustled off 
well with the trade. I w^as curious to see how he manufac- 
tured his wares. He made more stir and show of business than 
any of the others, dipping into various books, fluttering over 
the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel 
out of another, " line upon line, precept upon precept, here a 
little and there a little." The contents of his book seemed to 
be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' cauldron in Macbeth. 
It was here a finger and there a thumb, toe of frog and blind 



72 THE SKETCH BOOK 

worm's sting, with his own gossip poured in like "baboon's 
blood," to mak*. the medley " slab and good." 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be 
implanted in authors for wise purposes ? may it not be the way 
in which Providence has taken care that the seeds of knowledge 
and wisdom shall be preserved from age to age, in spite of the 
inevitable decay of the works in which they were first produced 1 
We see that Nature has wisely, though whimsically, provided 
for the conveyance of seeds from clime to clime, in the maws of 
certain birds ; so that animals which, in themselves, are little 
better than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunderers of the 
orchard and corn-fields, are, in fact, Nature's carriers to disperse 
and perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the -beauties 
and fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete authors are caught up 
by these flights of predatory writers, and cast forth, again to 
flourish and bear fruit in a remote and distant tract of time. 
Many of their works, also, undergo a kind of metempsychosis, 
and spring up under new forms. What was formerly a ponderous 
history revives in the shape of a romance, an old legend changes 
into a modern play, and a sober philosophical treatise furnishes 
the body for a whole series of bouncing and sparkling essays. 
Thus it is in the clearing of our American woodlands : where 
we burn down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks 
start up in their place, and we never see the prostrate trunk of 
a tree mouldering into soil but gives birth to a whole tribe of 
fungi. 

Let us not then lament over the decay and oblivion into 
which ancient writers descend; they do but submit to the 
great law of Nature, which declares that all sublunary shapes 
of matter shall be limited in their duration, but which decrees, 
also, that their element shall never perish. Generation after 
generation, both in animal and vegetable life, passes away, but 
the vital principle is transmitted to posterity, and the species 
continue to flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget authors, and, 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 73 

having produced a immeroiis progeny, in a good old age they 
sleep with their fathers — that is to say, witli the authors who 
preceded them, and from whom they had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies I had leaned 
my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether it war^ 
owing to the soporific emanations from these works, or to the 
profound quiet of the room, or to the lassitude arising from 
much wandering, or to an unlucky habit of napping at improper 
times and places with which I am grievously afflicted, so it was 
that I fell into a doze. Still, however, my imagination con- 
tinued busy, and indeed the same scene remained before my 
mind's eye, only a little changed in some of the details. I 
dreamt that the chamber was still decorated with the portraits 
of ancient authors, but that the number was increased. The 
long tables had disappeared, and in place of the sage magi, I 
beheld a ragged, threadbare throng such as may be seen plying 
about the great repository of cast-off clothes, Monmouth Street. 
Whenever they seized upon a book, by one of those incongruities 
common to dreams, methought it turned into a garment of 
foreign or antique fashion, with which they proceeded to equip 
themselves. I noticed, however, that no one pretended to 
clothe himself from any particular suit, but took a sleeve from 
one, a cape from another, a skirt from a third, thus decking 
himself out piecemeal, while some of his original rags would 
peep out from among his borrowed finery. 

There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson whom I observed 
ogling several mouldy polemical writers through an eyeglass. 
He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of 
the old fathers, and, having purloined the gray beard of another, 
endeavored to look exceedingly wise ; but the smirking common- 
place of his countenance set at naught all the trappings of 
wisdom. One sickly-looking gentleman was busy embroidering 
a very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of several 
old court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another 



74 THE SKETCH BOOK , 

1 
had trimmed himself magnificently from an illuminated manu- | 
script, had stack a nosegay in his bosom, culled from "The I 
Paradise of Dainty Devices," ° and having put Sir Philip Sidney's % 
hat on one side of his head, strutted off with an exquisite air \ 
of vulgar elegance. A third, who was but of puny dimensions, 1 
had bolstered himself out bravely with the spoils from several i 
obscure tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing \ 
front, but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived \ 
that he had patched his small-clothes with scraps of parchment \ 
from a Latin author. ! 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who only ; 
helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their i 
own ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to \ 
contemplate the costumes of the old writers merely to imbibe ' 
their principles of taste, and to catch their air and spirit ; but \ 
I grieve to say that too many were apt to array themselves, \ 
from top to toe, in the patch-work manner I have mentioned, i 
I shall not omit to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and 
gaiters and an Arcadian hat, who had a violent propensity to 
the pastoral, but whose rural wanderings had been confined to 
the classic haunts of Primrose Hill and the solitudes of the 
Regent's Park. He had decked himself in wreaths and ribbons 
from all the old pastoral poets, and hanging his head on one 
side, went about with a fantastical, lackadaisical air, " babbling 
about green fields." But the personage that most struck my 
attention was a pragmatical old gentleman in clerical robes, 
with a remarkably large and square but bald head. He entered 
the room wheezing and puffing, elbowed his way through the 
throng with a look of sturdy self-confidence, and having laid 
hands upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head, and 
swept majestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade a cry suddenly 
resounded from every side of " Thieves ! thieves ! " I looked, 
and lo ! the portraits about the walls became animated ) The 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKmG 75 

old authors thrust out, first a head, then a shoulder, from the 
canvas, looked down curiously for an instant upon the motley 
throng, and then descended, with fury in their eyes, to claim 
their rifled property. The scene of scampering and hubbub 
that ensued baffles all description. The unhappy culprits en- 
deavored in vain to escape with their plunder. On one side 
might be seen half a dozen old monks, stripping a modern pro- 
fessor ; on another, there was sad devastation carried into the 
ranks of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, ° 
side by side, raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, and 
sturdy Ben Jonson° enacted more wonders than when a volun- 
teer with the army in Flanders. As to the dapper little com- 
piler of farragos mentioned some time since, he had arrayed 
himself in as many patches and colors as harlequin, and there 
was as fierce a contention of claimants about him as about the 
dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to see many men, to 
whom I had been accustomed to look up with awe and rever- 
ence, fain to steal off with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. 
Just then my eye was caught by the pragmatical old gentleman 
in the Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sore 
affright with half a score of authors in full cry after him. 
They were close upon his haunches ; in a twinkling off went 
his wig; at every turn some strip of raiment was peeled away, 
until in a few moments, from his domineering pomp, he shrunk 
into a little, pursy, •' chopp'd bald shot," and made his exit 
with only a few tags and rags fluttering at his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of this 
learned Theban that I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, 
which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and the scuffle 
were at an end. The chamber resumed its usual appearance. 
The old authors shrunk back into their picture-frames, and 
hung in shadowy solemnity along the walls. In short, I found 
myself wide awake in my corner, with the whole assemblage of 
bookworms gazing at me with astonishment. Nothing of the 



76 THE SKETCH BOOK 

dream had been real but my burst of laughter, a sound nevet 
before heard in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the 
ears of wisdom as to electrify the fraternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded whether 
I had a card of admission. At first I did not comprehend him, 
but I soon found that the library was a kind of literary " pre- 
serve," subject to game-laws, and that no one must presume to 
hunt there without special license and permission. In a word, 
I stood convicted of being an arrant poacher, and was glad to 
make a precipitate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of 
authors let loose upon me. 



A KOYAL POET 

Though your body be confined 

And soft love a prisoner bound, 
Yet the beauty of your mind 
Neither check nor chain hath found. 
Look out nobly, then, and dare 
Even the fetters that you wear. 

Fletcher. 

On a soft sunny morning in the genial month of May I made 
an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of storied 
and poetical associations. The very external aspect of the 
proud old pile is enough to inspire high thought. It rears its 
irregular walls and massive towers, like a mural crown round 
the brow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal banner in the clouds, 
and looks down with a lordly air upon the surrounding world. 

On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous vernal 
kind which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's temper- 
ament, filling his mind with music, and disposing him to quote 
poetry and dream of beauty. In wandering through the mag- 
nificent saloons and long echoing galleries of the castle I passed 
with indifference by whole rows of portraits of warriors and 



A ROYAL POET 77 

statesmen, but lingered in the chamber where hang the like- 
nesses of the beauties which graced the gay court of Charles 
the Second ; and as I gazed upon them, depicted with amorous, 
half-dishevelled tresses, and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the 
pencil of Sir Peter Lely,° which had thus enabled me to bask 
in the reflected rays of beauty. In traversing also the "large 
green courts," with sunshine beaming on the gray walls and 
glancing along the velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with the 
image of the tender, the gallant, but hapless Surrey, and his 
account of his loiterings about them in his stripling days, when 
enamoured of the Lady Geraldine — 

" With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
With easie sighs, such as men draw in love." 

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility I visited the 
ancient keep of the castle, where James the First of Scotland, 
the pride and theme of Scottish poets and historians, was for 
many years of his youth detained a prisoner of state. It is a 
large gray tower, that has stood the brunt of ages, and is still 
in good preservation. It stands on a mound which elevates it 
above the other parts of the castle, and a great flight of steps 
leads to the interior. In the armory, a Gothic hall furnished 
with weapons of various kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of 
armor hanging against the wall, which had once belonged to 
James. Hence I was conducted up a staircase to a suite of 
apartments of faded magnificence, hung with storied tapestry, 
which formed his prison, and the scene of that passionate and 
fanciful amour, which has woven into the web of his story the 
magical hues of poetry and fiction. 

The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince is 
highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven he was sent from 
home by his father, Robert III., and destined for the French 
court, to be reared under the eye of the French monarch, secure 
from the treachery and danger that surrounded the royal house 



78 THE SKETCH BOOK 

of Scotland. It was his mishap, in the course of his voyage, to 
fall into the hands of the English, and he was detained prisoner 
by Henry IV., notwithstanding that a truce existed between the 
two countries. 

The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of many 
sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy father. 
"The news," we are told, "was brought to him while at sup- 
per, and did so overwhelm him with grief that he was almost 
ready to give up the ghost into the hands of the servant that 
attended him. But being carried to his bed-chamber, he ab- 
stained from all food, and in three days died of hunger and 
grief at Rothesay." ° 

James was detained in captivity above eighteen years ; but, 
though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated with the 
respect due to his rank. Care was taken to instruct him in all 
the branches of useful knowledge cultivated at that period, and 
to give him those mental and personal accomplishments deemed 
proper for a prince. Perhaps in this respect his imprisonment 
was an advantage, as it enabled him to apply himself the more 
exclusively to his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that 
rich fund of knowledge and to cherish those elegant tastes which 
have given such a lustre to his memory. The picture drawn of 
him in early life by the Scottish historians is highly captivating, 
and seems rather the description of a hero of romance than of 
a character in real history. He was well learnt, we are told, 
"to fight with the sword, to joust, to tourney, to wrestle, to 
sing and dance ; he was an expert mediciner, right crafty in 
playing both of lute and harp, and sundry other instruments of 
music, and was expert in grammar, oratory, and poetry." ° 

With this combination of manly and delicate accomplishments, 
fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, and calcu- 
lated to give him an intense relish for joyous existence, it must 
have been a severe trial, in an age of bustle and chivalry, to 
pass the spring-time of his years in monotonous captivity. It 



A ROYAL POET 79 

was the good fortune of James, however, to be gifted with a 
powerful poetic fancy, and to be visited in his prison by the 
choicest inspirations of the muse. Some minds corrode and 
grow inactive under the loss of personal liberty ; others grow 
morbid and irritable; but it is the nature of the poet to 
become tender and imaginative in the loneliness of confinement. 
He banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, like the 
captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody. 

Have you not seen the nightingale, 

A pilgrim coop'd into a cage, 
How doth she chant her wonted tale, 
In that her lonely hermitage ! 
Even there her charming melody doth prove 
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.° 

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it 
is irrepressible, unconfinable — that when the real world is shut 
out, it can create a world for itself, and, with a necromantic 
power, can conjure up glorious shapes and forms and brilliant 
visions to make solitude populous and irradiate the gloom of 
the dungeon. Such was the world of pomp and pageant that 
lived round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, when he con- 
ceived the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may 
consider The King's Quair° composed by James during his 
captivity at Windsor, as another of those beautiful breakings 
forth of the soul from the restraint and gloom of the prison- 
house. 

The subject of the poem is his love for the lady Jane Beau- 
fort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of the 
blood-royal of England, of whom he became enamoured in the 
course of his captivity. What gives it a peculiar value is that 
it may be considered a transcript of the royal bard's true feel- 
ings and the story of his real loves and fortunes. It is not 
often that sovereigns write poetry or that poets deal in fact. 
It is gratifying to the pride of a common man to find a monarch 



80 THE SKETCH BOOK 

thus suing, as it were, for admission into his closet, and seeking 
to win his favor by administering to his pleasures. It is a proof 
of the honest equality of intellectual competition, which strips 
off all the trappings of factitious dignity, brings the candidate 
down to a level with his fellow-men, and obliges him to depend 
on his Own native powers for distinction. It is curious, too, to 
get at the history of a monarch's heart, and to find the simple 
affections of human nature throbbing under the ermine. But 
James had learnt to be a poet before he was a king ; he was 
schooled in adversity and reared in the company of his own 
thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to parley with their 
hearts or to meditate their minds into poetry ; and had James 
been brought up amidst the adulation and gayety of a court, we 
should never, in all probability, have had such a poem as the 
Quair. 

I have been particularly interested by those parts of the 
poem which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his 
situation or which are connected with the apartment in the 
Tower. They have thus a personal and local charm, and are 
given with such circumstantial truth as to make the reader 
present with the captive in his prison and the companion of 
his meditations. 

Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of spirit, 
and of the incident which first suggested the idea of writing the 
poem. It was the still mid-watch of a clear moonlight night ; 
the stars, he says, were twinkling as fire in the high vault of 
heaven, and " Cynthia rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius." 
He lay in bed wakeful and restless, and took a book to beguile 
the tedious hours. The book he chose was Boetius' Consolations 
of Philosophy, a work popular among the writers of that day, 
and which had been translated by his great prototype, Chaucer. 
From the high eulogium in which he indulges it is evident this 
was one of his favorite volumes while in prison ; and indeed it 
is an admirable text-book for meditation under adversity. It 



A rOyal poet 81 

is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, purified by sorrow 
and suffering, bequeathing to its successors in calamity the 
maxims of sweet morality and the trains of eloquent but simple 
reasoning by which it was enabled to bear up against the various 
ills of life. It is a talisman, which the unfortunate may treas- 
ure up in his bosom, or, like the good King James, lay upon his 
nightly pillow. 

After closing the volume he turns its contents over in his 
mind, and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickleness 
of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and the evils that had 
overtaken him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he hears the 
bell ringing to matins, but its sound, chiming in with his melan- 
choly fancies, seems to him like a voice exhorting him to write 
his story. In the spirit of poetic errantry he determines to com- 
ply with this intimation ; he therefore takes pen in hand, makes 
with it a sign of the cross to implore a benediction, and sallies 
forth into the fairy-land of poetry. There is something extremely 
fanciful in all this, and it is interesting as furnishing a striking 
and beautiful instance of the simple manner in which whole 
trains of poetical thought are sometimes awakened and literary 
enterprises suggested to the mind. 

In the course of his poem he more than once bewails the 
peculiar hardness of his fate, thus doomed to lonely and inactive 
life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the world 
in which the meanest animal indulges unrestrained. There is 
a sweetness, however, in his very complaints ; they are the 
lamentations of an amiable and social spirit at being denied 
the indulgence of its kind and generous propensities ; there is 
nothing in them harsh nor exaggerated ; they flow with a nat- 
ural and touching pathos, and are perhaps rendered more 
touching by their simple brevity. They contrast finely with 
those elaborate and iterated repinings which we sometimes meet 
with in poetry, the effusions of morbid minds sickening under 
miseries of their own creating, and venting their bitterness upon 



82 THE SKETCH BOOK 'i 

an unoffending world. James speaks of his privations with 1 
acute sensibility, but having mentioned them passes on, as if \ 
his manly mind disdained to brood over unavoidable calamities. ■ 
When such a spirit breaks forth into complaint, however brief, I 
we are aware how great must be the suffering that extorts the :, 
murmur. We sympathize with James, a romantic, active, and \ 
accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood of youth from all j 
the enterprise, the noble uses, and vigorous delights of life, as ' 
we do with Milton, alive to all the beauties of nature and glories \ 
of art, when he breathes forth brief but deep-toned lamentations : 
over his perpetual blindness. 

Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we ' 
might almost have suspected that these lowerings of gloomy re- ! 
flection were meant as preparative to the brightest scene of his i 
story, and to contrast with that refulgence of light and loveliness, 1 
that exhilarating accompaniment of bird and song, and foliage ' 
and flower, and all the revel of the year, with which he ushers \ 
in the lady of his heart. It is this scene, in particular, which ' 
throws all the magic of romance about the old castle keep. He j 
had risen, he says, at daybreak, according to custom, to escape | 
from the dreary meditations of a sleepless pillow. " Bewailing ; 
in his chamber thus alone," despairing of all joy and remedy, \ 
"for, tired of thought and woe-begone," he had wandered to the ' 
window to indulge the captive's miserable solace of gazing wist- '■ 
fully upon the world from which he is excluded. The window ; 
looked forth upon a small garden which lay at the foot of the ' 
tower. It was a quiet, sheltered spot, adorned with arbors and ■ 
green alleys, and protected from the passing gaze by trees and ^ 
hawthorn hedges. I 



Now was there made fast by the tower's wall, 
A garden faire, and in the corners set 

An arbour green with wandis long and small 
Railed about, and so with leaves beset 

Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, 



A ROYAL POET 83 

That lyf was none, walkyng there forhye, 
That might within scarce any wight espye. 

So thick the branches and the leves grene, 
Besliaded all the alleys that there were, 

And midst of every arbour might be seen, 
The sharpe, grene, svvete juniper, 

Growing so fair with branches here aud there, 
That as it seemed to a lyf without, 
The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 

And on the small grene twistis set 

The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 

So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 
Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 

That all the garden and the wallis rung 

Right of their song 

It was the month of May, when everything was in bloom, 
and he interprets the song of the nightingale into the language 
of his enamoured feeling : 

Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May; 

For of your bliss the kalends have begun, 
And sing with us, Away, winter, away. 

Come, summer, come, the sweet season aud sun. 

As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the birds, 
he gradually relapses into one of those tender and undefinable 
reveries which fill the youthful bosom in this delicious season. 
He wonders what this love may be of which he has so often 
read, and which thus seems breathed forth in the quickening 
breath of May, and melting all nature into ecstasy and song. If 
it really be so great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus generally 
dispensed to the most insignificant beings, why is he alone cut 
off from its enjoyments 1 

Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be. 
That love is of such noble myght and kynde? 

Loving his folke, and such prosperitee, 
Is it of him, as we in books do find; 
May he oui-e hertes setten° and unbynd: 

Hath he upon oure hertes such maistrye ? 

Or is all this but feyrait fantasye? 



84 THE SKETCH BOOK 

For giff he be of so grete excellence 

That he of every wight hath care and charge, 

What have I gilf^ to him, or done offense, 
That I am thral'd and birdis go at large? 

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye downward, he 
beholds "the fairest and the freshest young floure" that ever 
he had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the garden 
to enjoy the beauty of that "fresh May morrowe." Breaking 
thus suddenly upon his sight in a moment of loneliness and 
excited susceptibility, she at once captivates the fancy of the ro- 
mantic prince, and becomes the object of his wandering wishes, 
the sovereign of his ideal world. 

There is, in this charming scene, an evident resemblance to 
the early part of Chaucer's "Knight's Tale," where Palamon 
and Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in 
the garden of their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual 
fact to the incident which he had read in Chaucer may have in- 
duced James to dwell on it in his poem. His description of the 
Lady Jane is given in the picturesque and minute manner of his 
master, and, being doubtless taken from life, is a perfect portrait 
of a beauty of that day. He dwells with the fondness of a 
lover on every article of her apparel, from the net of pearl splen- 
dent with emeralds and sapphires, that confined her golden hair, 
even to the " goodly chaine of small orfeverye " ° about lier neck, 
whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a heart, that seemed, he 
says, like a spark of fire burning upon her white bosom. Her 
dress of white tissue was looped up to enable her to walk with 
more freedom. She w^as accompanied by two female attendants, 
and about her sported a little hound decorated with bells ; prob- 
ably the small Italian hound of exquisite symmetry which was 
a parlor favorite and pet among the fashionable dames of ancient 
times. James closes his description by a burst of general eulo- 
gium : 

In her was youth, beauty, with humble port 
Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature : 



A ROYAL POET 85 

God better knows than my pen can report, 

Wisdom, largesse," estate,'^ and cuuning° sure. 

In every point so guided her measure, 

In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance, 

That nature might no more her child advance. 

The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an end to 
this transient riot of the heart. With her departs the amorous 
illusion that had shed a temporary charm over the scene of his 
captivity, and he relapses into loneliness, now rendered tenfold 
more intolerable by this passing beam of unattainable beauty. 
Through the long and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, 
and when evening approaches, and Phoebus, as he beautifully 
expresses it, had "bade farewell to every leaf and flower," he 
still lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon the cold 
stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, until, 
gradually lulled by the mute melancholy of the twilight hour, 
he lapses, " half sleeping, half swoon," into a vision, which occu- 
pies the remainder of the poem and in which is allegorically 
shadowed out the history of his passion. 

When he wakes from his trance he rises from his stony pil- 
low, and, pacing his apartment, full of dreary reflections, ques- 
tions his spirit whither it has been wandering ; whether, indeed, 
all that has passed before his dreaming fancy has been conjured 
up by preceding circumstances, or whether it is a vision in- 
tended to comfort and assure him in his despondency. If the 
latter, he prays that some token may be sent to confirm the 
promise of happier days, given him in his slumbers. Suddenly 
a turtle-dove of the purest whiteness comes flying in at the 
window and alights upon his hand, bearing in her bill a branch 
of red gilliflower, on the leaves of which is written, in letters 
of gold, the following sentence : — 

Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 
The newis glad, that blissful is and sure 

Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing, 
For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 



86 THE SKETCH BOOK 

He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread ; reads 
it with rapture ; and this, he says, was the first token of his 
succeeding happiness. Whether this is a mere poetic fiction, 
or whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a token of her 
favor in this romantic way, remains to be determined according 
to the fato or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem by 
intimating that the promise conveyed in the vision and by the 
flower is fulfilled b*^ his being restored to liberty, and made 
happy in the possession of the sovereign of his heart. 

Such is the poetical account given by James of his love ad- 
ventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute fact, 
and how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless to con- 
jecture ; let us not, however, reject every romantic incident as 
incompatible with real life, but let us sometimes take a poet at 
his word. I have noticed merely those parts of the poem im- 
mediately connected with the tower, and have passed over a 
large part written in the allegorical vein, so much cultivated at 
that day. The language, of course, is quaint and antiquated, 
so that the beauty of many of its golden phrases will scarcely 
be perceived at the present day ; but it is impossible not to be 
charmed with the genuine sentiment, the delightful artlessness 
and urbanity, which prevail throughout it. The descriptions 
of Nature too, with which it is embellished,' are given with a 
truth, a discrimination, and a freshness worthy of the most cul- 
tivated periods of the art. 

As an amatory poem it is edifying in these days of coarser 
thinking to notice the nature, refinement, and exquisite delicacy 
which pervade it, banishing every gross thought or immodest 
expression, and presenting female loveliness clothed in all its 
chivalrous attributes of almost supernatural purity and grace. 

James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Gower, 
and was evidently an admirer and studier of their writings. 
Indeed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges them as his mas- 
ters j and in some parts of his poem we find traces of similarity 



A ROYAL POET 87 

to their productions, more especially to those of Chaucer. There 
are always, however, general features of resemblance in the works 
of contemporary authors, which are not so much borrowed from 
each other as from the times. Writers, like bees, toll their 
sweets in the wide world ; they incorporate with their own con- 
ceptions the anecdotes and thoughts current in society; and 
thus each generation has some features in common characteris- 
tic of the age in wdiich it lives. 

James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our literary 
history, and establishes the claims of his country to a participa- 
tion in its primitive honors. Whilst a small cluster of English 
writers are constantly cited as the fathers of our verse, the 
name of their great Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over 
in silence ; but he is evidently worthy of being enrolled in that 
little constellation of remote but never-failing luminaries who 
shine in the highest firmament of literature, and who, like 
morning stars, sang together at the bright dawning of British 
poesy. 

Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish 
history (though the manner in wiiich it has of late been woven 
with captivating fiction has made it a universal study) may be 
curious to learn something of the subsequent history of James 
and the fortunes of his love. His passion for the Lady Jane, 
as it was the solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his release, 
it being imagined by the Court that a connection with the blood 
royal of England would attach him to its own interests. He 
was ultimately restored to his liberty and crown, having pre- 
viously espoused the Lady Jane, who accompanied him to Scot- 
land and made him a most tender and devoted wife. 

He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal chief- 
tains having taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities 
of a long interregnum to strengthen themselves in their posses- 
sions and place themselves above the power of the laws. James 
sought to found the basis of his power in the affections of his 



88 THE SKETCH BOOK 

people. He attached the lower orders to him by the reforms 
tion of abuses, the temperate and equable administration of jus- 
tice, the encouragement of the arts of peace, and the promotion 
of everything that could diffuse comfort, competency, and inno- 
cent enjoyment through the humblest ranks of society. He 
mingled occasionally among the common people in disguise ; 
visited their firesides; entered into their cares, their pursuits, 
and their amusements ; informed himself of the mechanical arts, 
and how they could best be patronized and improved ; and was thus 
an all-pervading spirit, watching with a benevolent eye over the 
meanest of his subjects. Having in this generous manner made \ 
himself strong in the hearts of the common people, he turned | 
himself to curb the power of the factious nobility ; to strip them I 
of those dangerous immunities which they had usurped ; to pun- ] 
ish such as had been guilty of flagrant offences ; and to bring ] 
the whole into proper obedience to the Crown. For some time -; 
they bore this with outward submission, but with secret im- \ 
patience and brooding resentment. A conspiracy was at length '\ 
formed against his life, at the head of which was his own uncle, \ 
Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being too old himself for ^ 
the perpetration of the deed of blood, instigated his grandson, ■ 
Sir Robert Stewart, together with Sir Robert Graham and others ] 
of less note, to commit the deed. They broke into his bed- ; 
chamber at the Dominican convent near Perth, where he was i 
residing, and barbarously murdered him by oft-repeated wounds. \ 
His faithful queen, rushing to throw her tender body between I 
him and the sword, was twice wounded in the ineffectual at- \ 
tempt to shield him from the assassin ; and it was not until she j 
had been forcibly torn from his person that the murder was \ 
accomplished. i 

It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times, ; 
and of the golden little poem which had its birthplace in this j 
tower, that made me visit the old pile with more than common • 
interest. The suit of armor hanging up in the hall, richly gilt j 

J 



A ROYAL POET 89 

and embellished, as if to figure in the tourney, brought the 
image of the gallant and romantic prince vividly before my im- 
agination. I paced the deserted chambers where he had com- 
posed his poem ; I leaned upon the window, and endeavored 
to persuixde myself it was the very one where he had been visited 
by his vision ; I looked out upon the spot where he had first 
seen the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and joyous month ; 
the birds were again vying with each other in strains of liquid 
melody ; everything was bursting into vegetation and budding 
forth the tender promise of the year. Time, which delights to 
obliterate the sterner memorials of human pride, seems to have 
passed lightly over this little scene of poetry and love, and to 
have withheld his desolating hand. Several centuries have gone 
by, yet the garden still flourishes at the foot of the tower. It 
occupies what was once the moat of the keep ; and, though some 
parts have been separated by dividing walls, yet others have 
still their arbors and shaded walks, as in the days of James, 
and the whole is sheltered, blooming, and retired. There is a 
charm about a spot that has been printed by the footsteps of 
departed beauty and consecrated by the inspirations of the poet, 
which is heightened, rather than impaired, by the lapse of ages. 
It is, indeed, the gift of poetry to hallow every place in which 
it moves ; to breathe around nature an odor more exquisite than 
the perfume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint more magical 
than the blush of morning. 

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a war- 
rior and a legislator ; but I have delighted to view him merely 
as the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of the human 
heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet- flowers of 
poetry and song in the paths of common life. He was the first 
to cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, which 
has since become so prolific of the most wholesome and highly 
flavored fruit. He carried with him into the sterner regions of 
the north all the fertilizing arts of southern refinement. He did 



90 THE SKETCH BOOK 

everything in his power to win his countrymen to the gay, the? 
elegant, and gentle arts, which soften and refine the character 
of a people, and wreathe a grace round the loftiness of a proud 
and warlike spirit. He wrote many poems, which, unfortunately 
for the fulness of his fame, are now lost to the world ; one, which 
is still preserved, called " Christ's Kirk of the Green," shows 
how diligently he had made himself acquainted with the rustic 
sports and pastimes which constitute such a source of kind and 
social feeling among the Scottish peasantry, and with what sim- 
ple and happy humor he could enter into their enjoyments. He 
contributed greatly to improve the national music ; and traces 
of his tender sentiment and elegant taste are said to exist in 
those witching airs still piped among the wild mountains and 
lonely glens of Scotland. He has thus connected his image with 
whatever is most gracious and endearing in the national char- 
acter; he has embalmed his memory in song, and floated his 
name to after-ages in the rich streams of Scottish melody. The 
recollection of these things was kindling at my heart as I paced 
the silent scene of his imprisonment. I have visited Vaucluse 
with as much enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at 
Loretto ; but I have never felt more poetical devotion than when 
contemplating the old tower and the little garden at Windsor, 
and musing over the romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the 
Royal Poet of Scotland. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH : 

A gentleman ! ,! 

What, o' the woolpack? or the sugar-chest? j 

Or lists of velvet ? which is 't, pound, or yard, j 
You vend your gentry by ? 

Beggar's Bush. \ 

\ 

There are few places more favorable to the study of charac- ' 

ter than an English country church. I was once passing a few j 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH 91 

weeks at the seat of a friend who resided in the vicinity of one 
the appearance of which particularly struck my fancy. It was 
one of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity, which gives such 
a peculiar charm to English landscape. It stood in the midst 
of a country filled with ancient families, and contained within 
its cold and silent aisles the congregated dust of many noble 
generations. The interior walls were encrusted with monuments 
of every age and style. The light streamed through windows 
dimmed with armorial bearings, richly emblazoned in stained 
glass. In various parts of the church were tombs of knights 
and high-born dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their effi- 
gies in colored marble. On every side the eye w^as struck with 
some instance of aspiring mortality, some haughty memorial 
which human pride had erected over its kindred dust in this 
temple of the most humble of all religions. 

The congregation was composed of the neighboring people of 
rank, who sat in pews sumptuously lined and cushioned, fur- 
nished with richly gilded prayer-books, and decorated with their 
arms upon the pew doors ; of the villagers and peasantry, who 
filled the back seats and a small gallery beside the organ ; and 
of the poor of the parish, who were ranged on benches in the 
aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling, well-fed vicar, who 
had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privileged 
guest at all the tables of the neighborhood, and had been the 
keenest fox-hunter in the country until age and good living had 
disabled him from doing anything more than ride to see the 
hounds throw off", and make one at the hunting dinner. 

Under the ministry of such a pastor I found it impossible to 
get into the train of thought suitable to the time and place ; so, 
having, like many other feeble Christians, compromised with my 
conscience by laying the sin of my own delinquency at another 
person's threshold, I occupied myself by making observations on 
my neighbors. 



92 THE SKETCH BOOK ) 

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice the .j 
manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, that there ■ 
was the least pretension where there was the most acknowledged ? 
title to respect. I was particularly struck, for instance, with i 
the family of a nobleman of high rank, consisting of several i 
sons and daughters. Nothing could be more simple and unas- \ 
suming than their appearance. They generally came to church ■ 
in the plainest equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies-^ 
would stop and converse in the kindest manner with the peas- \ 
antry, caress the children, and listen to the stories of the hum-^ 
ble cottagers. Their countenances were open and beautifully^ 
fair, with an expression of high refinement, but at the same time ! 
a frank cheerfulness and engaging affability. Their brothers ; 
were tall and elegantly formed. They were dressed fashionably, j 
but simply — with strict neatness and propriety, but without ; 
any mannerism or foppishness. Their whole demeanor was easy ; 
and natural, with that lofty grace and noble frankness which ; 
bespeak free-born souls that have never been checked in their- 
growth by feelings of inferiority. There is a healthful hardi- > 
ness about real dignity, that never dreads contact and com-j 
munion with others, however humble. It is only spurious; 
pride that is morbid and sensitive and shrinks from every touch. } 
I was pleased to see the manner in which they would converse^ 
with the peasantry about those rural concerns and field-sports i 
in which the gentlemen of this country so much delight. Ini 
these conversations there was neither haughtiness on the one; 
part, nor servility on the other, and you were only reminded of 1 
the difference of rank by the habitual respect of the peasant. | 

In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citizen, who 
had amassed a vast fortune, and, having purchased the estate^ 
and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neighborhood, was^ 
endeavoring to assume all the style and dignity of an hereditary: 
lord of the soil. The family always came to church en prince.i 
They were rolled majestically along in a carriage emblazoned 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH 93 

with arms. The crest glittered in silver radiance from every 
part of the harness where a crest could possibly be placed, A 
fat coachman, in a three-cornered hat richly laced and a flaxen 
wig curling close round his rosy face, was seated on the box, 
with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen in gorgeous 
liveries, with huge bouquets and gold-headed canes, lolled behind. 
The carriage rose and sunk on its long springs with a peculiar 
stateliness of motion. The very horses champed their bits, 
arched their necks, and glanced their eyes more proudly than 
common horses ; either because they had caught a little of the 
family feeling, or were reined up more tightly than ordinary. 

I could not but admire the style with which the splendid 
pageant was brought up to the gate of the churchyard. There 
was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of the 
wall — a great smacking of the whip, straining and scrambling 
of horses, glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels through 
gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vainglory to the 
coachman. The horses were urged and checked until they were 
fretted into a foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing 
trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of vil- 
lagers sauntering quietly to church opened precipitately to the 
right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching the 
gate the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that produced 
an immediate stop and almost threw them on their haunches. 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footmen to alight, 
pull down the steps, and prepare everything for the descent on 
earth of this august family. The old citizen first emerged his 
round red face from out the door, looking about him with the 
pompous air of a man accustomed to rule on 'Change, and shake 
the Stock Market with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, com- 
fortable dame, followed him. There seemed, I must confess, 
but little pride in her composition. She was the picture of 
broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went well with 
her, and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine 



94 THE SKETCH BOOK 

house, a fine carriage, fine children — everything was fine about 
her : it was nothing but driving about and visiting and feasting. 
Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it was one long Lord Mayor's 
Day. 

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They cer- 
tainly were handsome, but had a supercilious air that chilled 
admiration and disposed the spectator to be critical. They were 
ultrafashionable in dress, and, though no one could deny the 
richness of their decorations, yet their appropriateness might 
be questioned amidst the simplicity of a country church. They 
descended loftily from the carriage, and moved up the line of 
peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. 
They cast an excursive glance around, that passed coldly over 
the burly faces of the peasantry until they met the eyes of the 
nobleman's family, when their countenances immediately bright- 
ened into smiles, and they made the most profound and elegant j 
courtesies, which were returned in a manner that showed they 
were but slight acquaintances. ' 

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, who 
came to cliurch in a dashing curricle with outriders. They 
were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all that pedan- ■ 
try of dress which marks the man of questionable pretensions ;; 
to style. They kept entirely by themselves, eyeing every one ', 
askance that came near them, as if measuring his claims to re^.; 
spectability ; yet they were without conversation, except the i 
exchange of an occasional cant phrase. They even moved artifi-^ ; 
cially, for their bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the day, ^ 
had been disciplined into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art 
had done everything to accomplish them as men of fashion, but 
Nature had denied them the nameless grace. They were vul- 
garly shaped, like men formed for the common purposes of life, 
and had that air of superciliovis assumption which is never seen 
in the true gentleman. 

I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH ^ 95 

two families, because I considered them specimens of what is 
often to be met with in this country — the unpretending great 
and the arrogant little. I have no respect for titled rank unless 
it be accompanied with true nobility of soul ; but I have re- 
marked in all countries whefe artificial distinctions exist that 
the very highest classes are always the most courteous and un- 
assuming. Those who are well assured of their own standing 
are least apt to trespass on that of others ; whereas nothing is 
so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to ele- 
vate itself by humiliating its neighbor. 

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice 
their behavior in church. That of the nobleman's family was 
quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they appeared to have 
any fervor of devotion, but rather a respect for sacred things and 
sacred places inseparable from good-breeding. The others, on 
the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter and whisper ; they be- 
trayed a continual consciousness of finery, and the sorry ambition 
of being the wonders of a rural congregation. 

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the 
service. He took the whole burden of family devotion upon 
himself, standing bolt upright and uttering the responses in a 
loud voice that might be heard all over the church. It was 
evident that he was one of those thorough Church-and-king men 
who connect the idea of devotion and loyalty — who consider the 
Deity, somehow or other, of the government party, and religion 
" a very excellent sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced 
and kept up." 

When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more by 
way of example to the lower orders, to show them that, though 
so great and wealthy, he was not above being religious ; as I 
have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin of 
charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful and pronounc- 
ing it " excellent food for the poor." 

When the service was at an end I was curious to witness the 



96 THE SKETCH BOOK 

several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their sis- 
ters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling home across the 
fields, chatting with the country people as they went. The 
others departed as they came, in grand parade. Again were the 
equipages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the smack- 
ing of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and the glittering of har- 
ness. The horses started off almost at a bound ; the villagers 
again hurried to right and left ; the wheels threw up a cloud of 
dust, and the aspiring family was rapt out of sight in a whirl- 
wind. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 

{ 

Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires 
Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd. 

Marlowe's Tamburlaine. 

Those who are in the habit of remarking such matters must I 
have noticed the passive quiet of an English landscape on Sun- 
day. The clacking of the mill, the regularly recurring stroke of i 
the flail, the din of the blacksmith's hammer, the whistling of 
the ploughman, the rattling of the cart, and all other sounds 
of rural labor are suspended. The very farm-dogs bark less fre- 
quently, being less disturbed by passing travellers. At such 
times I have almost fancied the wind sunk into quiet, and that 
the sunny landscape, with its fresh green tints melting into blue 
haze, enjoyed the hallowed calm. 

Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
The bridal of the earth and sky. 

Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day 
of rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature 
has its moral influence ; every restless passion is charmed down, 
and we feel the natural religion of the soul gently springing up 
within us. For my part, there are feelings that visit me in a : 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 97 

country church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which I 
experience nowhere else; and if not a more religious, I think I 
am a better man on Sunday than on any other day of the seven. 

During my recent residence in the country I used frequently 
to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its 
mouldering monuments, its dark oaken panelling, all reverend 
with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt 
of solemn meditation ; but, being in a wealthy, aristocratic neigh- 
borhood, the glitter of fashion penetrated even into the sanctuary; 
and I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world by 
the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only 
being in the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel 
the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a poor 
decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years and in- 
firmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject 
poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her 
appearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was 
scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded 
her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but 
sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have sur- 
vived all love, all friendship, all society, and to have nothing 
left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising 
and bending her aged form in prayer ; habitually conning her 
prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes could not 
permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart, I 
felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose 
to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the 
organ, or the chanting of the choir. 

I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this 
was so delightfully situated that it frequently attracted me. 
It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beauti- 
ful bend and then wound its way through a long reach of soft 
meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees 
which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire 



98 THE SKETCH BOOK 



shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows ) 
generally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still i 
sunny morning watching two laborers who were digging a ] 
grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected ; 
corners of the churchyard, where, from the number of nameless i 
graves around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless \ 
were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made j 
grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was^j 
meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank which extend! 
thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced 
the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of" 
poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the^ 
plainest materials, without pall or other covering, was bornel 
by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an, 
air of cold indifference. There were no mock mburners in the 
trappings of affected woe, but there was one real mourner who. 
feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged mother 
of the deceased, the poor old woman whom I had seen seated, 
on the steps of the altar. She was supported by a humble 
friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of theJj 
neighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of the J 
village were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthink-| 
ing mirtli, and now pausing to gaze with childish curiosity on '. 
the grief of the mourner. 

As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued 
from the church-porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book 
in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was 
a mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and 
the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, there- 
fore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest 
moved but a few steps from the church-door ; his voice could 
scarcely be heard at the grave ; and never did I hear the funeral 
ser^dce, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a 
frigid mummery of words. 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 99 

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the 
ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of the 
deceased — "George Somers, aged 26 years." The poor 
mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. 
Her withered hands were clasped as if in prayer ; but I could 
perceive, by a feeble rocking of the body and a convulsive motion 
of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son 
with the yearnings of a mother's heart. 

Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. 
There was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the 
feelings of grief and affection ; directions given in the cold tones 
of business ; the striking of spades into sand and gravel, which, 
at the grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, the most wither- 
ing. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a. 
wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about ' 
with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to 
lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands and broke 
into an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her 
took her by the arm, endeavoring to raise her from the earth, 
and to whisper something like consolation : "Nay, now — nay, 
now — don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake 
her head and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. 

As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the 
eords seemed to agonize her; but when, on some accidental 
Dbstruction, there was a jostling of the coffin, all the tenderness 
of the mother burst forth, as if any harm could come to him 
who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. 

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat 
— my eyes filled with tears ; I felt as if I were acting a 
barbarous part in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of 
maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the church- 
jrard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed. 

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the 
jrave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to 



- 1 

100 THE SKETCH BOOK l 

•her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart j 
ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the'i 
rich? They have friends to soothe, pleasures to beguile,^ 
a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What arej 
the sorrows of the young? Their growing minds soon close-^ 
above the wound — their elastic spirits soon rise beneath^i 
the pressure — their green and ductile affections soon twinei 
round new objects. But the sorrow of the poor, who have nof": 
outward appliances to soothe ; — the sorrows of the aged, with<, 
whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for| 
no after-growth of joy — the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, 
destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace of her 
years, — these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impo- 
tency of consolation. 

It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my way j 
homeward I met with the woman who had acted as comforter :jj; 
she was just returning from accompanying the mother to hei 
lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars con-j 
nected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. 

The parents of the deceased had resided in the village froi 
childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages,' 
and by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small, 
garden, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably,' 
and led a happy and a blameless life. They had one son, whO' 
had grown up to be the staff and pride of their age. " Oh, sir," 
said the good woman, " he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tem- 
pered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his 
parents ! It did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, drest ! 
out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his 
old mother to church • for she was always fonder of leaning ; 
on George's arm than oh her good man's; and, poor soul, she = 
might well be proud of him, for a finer lad there was not in 
the country round." 

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity | 



THE WIDOW AND HER SON 101 

and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the 
small craft that plied on a neighboring river. He had not been 
long in this employ when he was entrapped by a press-gang and 
carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of his seizure, 
but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was the loss of 
their main prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew 
heartless and melancholy and sunk into his grave. The widow, 
Jeft lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer support 
herself, and came upon the parish. Still, there was a kind 
feeling towards her throughout the village, and a certain respect 
HS being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one applied for 
the cottage in which she had passed so many happy days, she 
was permitted to remain in it, where she lived solitary and 
almost helpless. The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied 
from the scanty productions of her little garden, which the 
neighbors would now and then cultivate for her. It was but 
a few days before the time at which these circumstances were 
told me that she was gathering some vegetables for her repast, 
when she heard the cottage-door, which faced the garden, 
suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and seemed to be 
looking eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in sea- 
men's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the 
air of one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her and 
hastened towards her, but his steps were faint and faltering ; 
he sank on his knees before her and sobbed like a child. The 
poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and w^andering eye. 
" Oh, my dear, dear mother ! don't you know your son ? your 
poor boy, George?" It was, indeed, the wreck of her once 
noble lad, who, shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign 
imprisonment, had, at length, dragged his wasted limbs home- 
ward, to repose among the scenes of his childhood. 

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, 
where sorrow and joy were so completely blended : still, he 
was alive ! he was come home ! he might yet live to comfort 



102 THE SKETCH BOOK j 

and cherish her old age ! Nature, liowever, was exhausted in j 
him, and if anything had been wanting to finish the work of I 
fate, the desolation of his native cottage would have been suffi- j 
cient. He stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowed ! 
mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose j 
from it again. i 

The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had re- 
turned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance 
that their humble means afforded. He was too weak, however, 
to talk — he could only look his thanks. His mother was his 
constant attendant, and he seemed unwilling to be helped by 
any other hand. 

There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of 
manhood, that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings : 
of infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in 
sickness and despondency, who that has pined on a weary bed 
in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land, but has thought \ 
on the mother " that looked on his childhood," that smoothed his 
pillow, and administered to his helplessness? Oh, there is an 
enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that tran- 
scends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled 
by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worth- 
lessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every com- 
fort to his convenience ; she will surrender every pleasure to his 
enjoyment; she will glory in his fame and exult in his prosperity; 
and, if misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from 
misfortune ; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still 
love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace ; and if all the world 
beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him. 

Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sickness, \ 
and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and none to visit him. 
He could not endure his mother from his sight ; if she moved 
away, his eye would follow her. She would sit for hours by his 
bed watching him as he slept. Sometimes he would start from a 



THE WIDOW AND HER SOIi 103 

feverish dream, and look anxiously up until he saw her bending 
over him ; when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and 
fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this way he died. 

My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of affliction was 
to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary as- 
sistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, hov^ever, on inquiry, 
that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted them to do 
everything that the case admitted ; and as the poor know best 
how to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. 

The next Sunday I was at the village church, when, to my 
surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to 
her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 

She had made an effort to put on something like mourning 
for her son ; and nothing could be more touching than this strug- 
gle between pious affection and utter poverty — a black ribbon 
or so, a faded black handkerchief, and one or two more such 
humble attempts to express by outward signs that grief which 
passes show. When I looked round upon the storied monu- 
ments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp with 
which grandeur mourned magnificently over the departed pride, 
and turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sorrow 
at the altar of her God, and offering up the prayers and praises 
of a pious though a broken heart, I felt that this living monu- 
ment of real grief was worth them all. 

I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the 
congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted them- 
selves to render her situation more comfortable and to lighten 
her afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to 
the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, she was 
missed from her usual seat at church, and before I left the 
neighborhood I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that she 
had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she 
loved in that world where sorrow is never known and friends are 
never parted. 



104 THE SKETCH BOOK 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON 

In a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday in 
the country and its tranquillizing effect upon the landscape ; but 
where is its sacred influence more strikingly apparent than in 
the very heart of that great Babel, London'? On this sacred 
day the gigantic monster is charmed into repose. The intoler- 
able ain and struggle of the week are at an end. The shops are 
shut. The fires of forges and manufactories are extinguished, 
and the sun, no longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke, 
pours flown a sober yellow radiance into the quiet streets. The 
few pedestrians we meet, instead of hurrying forward with 
anxious countenances, move leisurely along; their brows are 
smoothed from the wrinkles of business and care ; they have 
put on tlieir Sunday looks and Sunday manners with their Sun- 
day clothes, and are cleansed in mind as well as in person. 

And now the melodious clangor of bells from church towers 
summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth issues from his 
mansion the family of the decent tradesman, the small children 
in the advance ; then the citizen and his comely spouse, followed 
by the grown-up daughters, with small morocco-bound prayer- 
books laid in the folds of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The 
housemaid looks after them from the window, admiring the 
finery of the family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile 
from her young mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted. 

Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the city, 
peradventure an alderman or a sheriff", and now the patter of 
many feet announces a procession of charity scholars in uniforms 
of antique cut, and each with a prayer-book under his arm. 

The ringing of bells is at an end ; the rumbling of the car- 
riages has ceased ; the pattering of feet is heard no more ; the 
flocks are folded in ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes 
and corners of the crowded city, Avhere the vigilant beadle keeps 



I 



A SUNDAY IN LONDON 105 

watch, like the shepherd's dog, round the threshold of the sanc- 
tuary. For a time everything is hushed, but soon is heard the 
deep, pervading sound of the organ, rolling and vibrating through 
the empty lanes and courts, and the sweet chanting of the choir 
making them resound with melody and praise. Never have I 
been more sensible of the sanctifying effect of church music than 
when I have heard it thus poured forth, like a river of joy, 
through the inmost • recesses of this great metropolis, elevating 
it, as it were, from all the sordid pollutions of the week, and 
bearing the poor world-worn soul on a tide of triumphant har- 
mony to heaven. 

The morning service is at an end. The streets are again alive 
with the congregations returning to their homes, but soon again 
relapse into silence. Now comes on the Sunday dinner, which 
to the city tradesman is a meal of some importance. There is 
more leisure for social enjoyment at the board. Members of the 
family can now gather together who are separated by the labo- 
rious occupations of the week. A school-boy may be permitted 
on that day to come to the paternal home ; an old friend of the 
family takes his accustomed Sunday seat at the board, tells over 
his well-known stories, and rejoices young and old with his well- 
known jokes. 

On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions to breathe 
the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and rural envi- 
rons. Satirists may say what they please about the rural en- 
joyments of a London citizen on Sunday, but to me there is 
something delightful in beholding the poor prisoner of the 
crowded and dusty city enabled thus to come forth once a week 
and throw himself upon the green bosom of nature. He is like 
a child restored to the mother's breast ; and they who first 
spread out these noble parks and magnificent pleasure-grounds 
which surround this huge metropolis have done at least as much 
for its health and morality as if they had expended the amount 
of cost in hospitals, prisons, and penitentiaries. 



106 THE SKETCH BOOK 

THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 

A SHAKESPEARIAN RESEAECH 

"A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows. 
I have heard my great-grandfather tell, hovi^ his great-great-grandfather 
should say, that it was an old proverb when his great-grandfather was 
a child, that ' it was a good wind that blew a man to the wine.' " 

Mother Bombie. 

It is a pious custom in some Catholic countries to honor the 
memory of saints by votive lights burnt before their pictures. 
The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be known by the num- 
ber of these offerings. One, perhaps, is left to moulder in the 
darkness of his little chapel ; another may have a solitary lamp 
to throw its blinking rays athwart his effigy ; while the whole 
blaze of adoration is lavished at the shrine of some beatified 
father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge lumi- j| 
nary of wax, the eager zealot, his seven-branched candlestick j 
and even the mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied that 
sufficient light is thrown upon the deceased unless he hangs ifp 
his little lamp of smoking oil. The consequence is, that in the 
eagerness to enlighten, they are often apt to obscure ; and I have 
occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost smoked out of counte- 
nance by the officiousness of his followers. 

In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakespeare, . 
Every writer considers it his bounden duty to light up some por- ; 
tion of his character or works, and to rescue some merit from j 
oblivion. The commentator, opulent in words, produces vast 
tomes of dissertations ; the common herd of editors send up 
mists of obscurity from their notes at the bottom of each page ; 
and every casual scribbler brings his farthing rushlight of eulogy 
or research to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. 

As I honor sJl established usages of my brethren of the quill, 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTGHEAP 107 



I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of homage to the 
memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, 
sorely puzzled in what way I should discharge this duty. I 
found myself anticipated in every attempt at a new reading ; 
every doubtful line had been explained a dozen different ways, 
and perplexed beyond the reach of elucidation ; and as to fine 
passages, they had all been amply praised by previous admirers ; 
nay, so completely had the bard, of late, been overlarded with 
panegyric by a great German critic that it was difficult now to 
find even a fault that had not been argued into a beauty. 

In this perplexity I was one morning turning over his pages 
when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of Henri/ IV., 
and was in a moment completely lost in the madcap revelry of 
the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these 
scenes of humor depicted, and v/ith such force and consistency 
are the characters sustained, that they become mingled up in 
the mind with the facts and personages of real life. To few 
readers does it occur that these are all ideal creations of a poet's 
brain, and that, in sober truth, no such knot of merry roisterers 
ever enlivened the dull neighborhood of Eastcheap. 

For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusions of 
poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed is just as valuable 
to me as a hero of history that existed a thousand years since ; 
and, if I may be excused such an insensibility to the common 
ties of human nature, I would not give up fat Jack for half the 
great men of ancient chronicle. What have the heroes of yore 
done for me or men like me 1 They have conquered countries 
of which I do not enjoy an acre, or they have gained laurels of 
which I do not inherit a leaf, or they have furnished examples 
of hair-brained prowess which I have neither the opportunity 
nor the inclination to follow. But old Jack Falstaff! kind 
Jack Falstaff ! sweet Jack Falstaff ! has enlarged the boundaries 
of human enjoyment ; he has added vast regions of wit and good- 
humor in which the poorest man may revel, and has bequeathed 



108 THE SKETCH BOOK 

a never-failing inheritance of jolly laughter to make mankind 
merrier and better to the latest posterity. 

A thought suddenly struck me. " I will make a pilgrimage 
to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, " and see if the old 
Boar's Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may light 
upon some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests ? 
At any rate, there will be a kindred pleasure in treading the 
halls once vocal with their mirth to that the toper enjoys in 
smelling to the empty cask, once filled with generous wine." 

The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execution. 
I forbear to treat of the various adventures and wonders I en- 
countered in my travels ; of the haunted regions of Cock Lane ; 
of the faded glories of Little Britain and the parts adjacent ; 
what perils I ran in Cateaton Street and Old Jewry ; of the 
renowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, the pride and 
wonder of the city, and the terror of all unlucky urchins ; and 
how I visited London Stone and struck my staff upon it in imi- 
tation of that arch-rebel Jack Cade. 

Let it suffice to say that I at length arrived in merry East- 
cheap, that ancient region of wit and w^assail, where the very 
names of the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane 
bears testimony even at the present day. For Eastcheap, says old 
Stow, " was always famous for its convivial doings. The cookes 
cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well baked, and other 
victuals : there was clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and 
sawtrie." Alas ! how sadly is the scene changed since the 
roaring days of Falstaff and old Stow ! The madcap roisterer has 
given place to the plodding tradesman ; the clattering of pots 
and the sound of " harpe and sawtrie " to the din of carts and 
the accurst dinging of the dustman's bell ; and no song is 
heard save, haply, the strain of some siren from Billingsgate 
chanting the eulogy of deceased ma.ckerel. 

I sought in vain for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. 
The only relic of it is a boar's head, carved in relief in stone, 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN; EASTCHEAP 109 

which formerly served as the sign, but at present is built into 
the parting line of two houses which stand on the site of the 
renowned old tavern. 

For the history of this little abode of good fellowship I was 
referred to a tallow-chandler's widow opposite, who had been 
born and brought up on the spot, and was looked up to as the 
indisputable chronicler of the neighborhood. I found her seated 
in a little back parlor, the window of which looked out upon a 
yard about eight feet square laid out as a flower garden, while 
a glass door opposite aff"orded a distant peep of the street through 
a vista of soap and tallow candles — the two views whicli com- 
prised, in all probability, her prospects in life and the little 
world in which she had lived and moved and had her being for 
the better part of a century. 

To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, 
from London Stone even unto the Monument, was doubtless, in 
her opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the universe. 
Yet, with all this, she possessed the simplicity of true wisdom, 
and that liberal communicative disposition which I have gener- 
ally remarked in intelligent old ladies knowing in the concerns 
of their neighborhood. 

Her information, however, did not extend far back into 
antiquity. She could throw no light upon the history of the 
Boar's Head from the time that Dame Quickly espoused the 
valiant Pistol until the great fire of London, when it was 
unfortunately burnt down. It was soon rebuilt, and continued 
to flourish under the old name and sign, until a dying landlord, 
struck with remorse for double scores, bad measures, and other 
iniquities which are incident to the sinful race of publicans, 
endeavored to make his peace with Heaven by bequeathing the 
tavern to St. Michael's Church, Crooked Lane, towards the 
supporting of a chaplain. For some time the vestry meetings 
were regularly held there, but it was observed that the old 
Boar never held up his head under church government. He 



110 THE SKETCH BOOK 

gradually declined, and finally gave his last gasp about thirty ' 
years since. The tavern was then turned into shops, but she \ 
informed me that a picture of it was still preserved in St. .; 
Michael's Church, which stood just in the rear. To get a sight " 
of this picture was now ray determination ; so, having informed J 
myself of the abode of the sexton, I took my leave of the vener- ! 
able chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless raised ; 
greatly her opinion of her legendary lore and furnished an im- \ 
portant incident in the history of her life. 

It cost me some difficulty and much curious inquiry to ferret ; 
out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to explore , 
Crooked Lane and divers little alleys and elbows and dark pas- i 
sages with which this old city is perforated like an ancient cheese '\ 
or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. At length I traced him to \ 
a corner of a small court surrounded by lofty houses, where the | 
inhabitants enjoy about as much of the face of heaven as a \ 
community of frogs at the bottom of a well. i 

The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bowing, ,; 
lowly habit, yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his eye, and, if 
encouraged, would now and then hazard a small pleasantry, such 
as a man of his low estate might venture to make in the com- ' 
pany of high churchwardens and other mighty men of the earth. ' 
I found him in company with the deputy organist, seated apart, ] 
like Miltons angels, discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal \ 
points, and settling the affiiirs of the church over a friendly pot | 
of ale ; for the lower classes of English seldom deliberate on \ 
any weighty matter without the assistance of a cool tankard to 
clear their understandings. I arrived at the moment when they 
had finished their ale and their argument, and were about to ! 
repair to the church to put it in order; so, having made known ] 
my wishes, I received their gracious permission to accompany them. { 

The church of St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, standing a short \ 
distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many 
fishmongers of renown ; and as every profession has its galaxj 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 111 

of glory and its constellation of great men, I presume the monu- 
ment of a mighty fishmonger of the olden time is regarded with 
as much reverence by succeeding generations of the craft, as 
poets feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil or soldiers the 
monument of a Marlborough or Turenne. 

I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious men, 
to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked Lane, contains also the 
ashes of that doughty champion, William Walworth, Knight, 
who so manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in 
Smithfield — a hero worthy of honorable blazon, as almost the 
only Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds of arms, the sover- 
eigns of Cockney being generally renowned as the most pacific 
of all potentates. 

Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately under 
the back window of what was once the Boar's Head, stands the 
tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer at the tavern. It 
is now nearly a century since this trusty drawer of good liquor 
closed his bustling career and was thus quietly deposited within 
call of his customers. As I was clearing away tlie weeds from 
his epitaph the little sexton drew me on one side with a myste- 
rious air, and informed me in a low voice that once upon a time, 
on a dark wintry night, when the wind was unruly, howling, 
and whistling, banging about doors and windows, and twirling 
weathercocks, so that the living were frightened out of their 
beds, and even the dead could not sleep quietly in their graves, 
the ghost of honest Preston, which happened to be airing itself 
in the churchyard, was attracted by the well-known call of 
" Waiter ! " from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appear- 
ance in the midst of a roaring club just as the parish clerk was 
singing a stave from the " mirre garland of Captain Death ; " to 
the discomfiture of sundry train-band captains and the conver- 
sion of an infidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on 
the spot, and was never known to twist the truth afterward, 
except in the way of business. 



112 THE SKETCH BOOK \ 

I beg it may be remembered that I do not pledge myself for j 
the authenticity of this anecdote, though it is well known that i 
the churchyards and by-corners of this old metropolis are very ^ 
much infested with perturbed spirits ; and every one must have i 
heard of the Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition that guards ^ 
the regalia in the Tower which has frightened so many bold | 
sentinels almost out of their wits. \ 

Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have been i 
a worthy successor to the nimbi e-tongued Francis, who attended \ 
upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been equally prompt \ 
with his " Anon, anon, sir ; " and to have transcended his prede- j 
cessor in honesty; for Falstaff, the veracity of whose taste no i 
man will venture to impeach, flatly accuses Francis of putting "■ 
lime in his sack, whereas honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for ] 
the sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the \ 
fairness of his measure. The worthy dignitaries of the church, ' 
however, did not appear much captivated by the sober virtues of ■<. 
the tapster ; the deputy organist, who had a moist look out of \ 
the eye, made some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a \ 
man brought up among full hogsheads, and the little sexton \ 
corroborated his opinion by a significant wink and a dubious \ 
shake of the head. 1 

Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on the \ 
history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet disap- j 
pointed me in the great object of my quest, the picture of the 
Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was to be found in the 
church of St. Michael's. "Marry and anieu," said I, "here 
endeth my research ! " So I was giving the matter up, with 
the air of a baffled antiquary, when my friend the sexton, per- 
ceiving me to be curious in everything relative to the old tavern, 
offered to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, which had 
been handed down from remote times when the parish meetings 
were held at the Boar's Head. These were deposited in the; 
parish club-room, which had been transferred, on the decline 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 113 

of the ancient establishment, to a tavern in the neighbor- 
hood. 

A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 
Miles Lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is kept 
by Master Edward Honeyball, the " bully-rock " of the establish- 
ment. It is one of those little taverns which abound in the 
heart of the city and form the centre of gossip and intelligence 
of the neighborhood. We entered the bar-room, which was nar- 
row and darkling, for in these close lanes but few rays of re- 
flected light are enabled to struggle down to the inhabitants, 
whose broad day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room 
was partitioned into boxes, each containing a table spread with 
a clean white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed that the 
guests were of the good old stamp, and divided their day equally, 
for it was but just one o'clock. At the lower end of the room 
was a clear coal fire, before which a breast of lamb was roast- 
ing. A row of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs 
glistened along the mantelpiece, and an old-fashioned clock 
ticked in one corner. There was something primitive in this 
medley of kitchen, parlor, and hall that carried me back to 
earlier times, and pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble, 
but everything had that look of order and neatness which 
bespeaks the superintendence of a notable English housewife. 
A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might be either 
fishermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the 
boxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was 
ushered into a little misshapen back room having at least nine 
corners. It was lighted by a sky-light, furnished with anti- 
quated leathern chairs, and ornamented with the portrait of a 
fat pig. It was evidently appropriated to particular customers, 
and I found a shabby gentleman in a red nose and oil-cloth hat 
seated in one corner meditating on a half-empty pot of porter. 

The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an air 
of profound importance imparted to her my errand. Dame 



114 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Honey ball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, and no \ 
bad substitute for tliat paragon of hostesses. Dame Quickly. 'I 
She seemed delighted with an opportunity to oblige, and, hurry- ] 
ing upstairs to the archives of her house, where the precious ■ 
vessels of the parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling v 
and courtesying, with them in her hands. I 

The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco-box ? 
of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked \ 
at their -stated meetings since time immemorial, and which was | 
never suffered to be profaned by vulgar hands or used on com- j 
mon occasions. I received it with becoming reverence, but what ■: 
was my delight at beholding on its cover the identical painting ;; 
of which I was in quest ! There was displayed the outside of i 
the Boar's Head Tavern, and before the door was to be seen the i 
whole convivial group at table, in full revel, pictured with that ; 
wonderful fidelity and force with which the portraits of renowned I 
generals and commodores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the "\ 
benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mis- \ 
take, the cunning limner had warily inscribed the names of ^ 
Prince Hal and Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. \ 

On the inside of the cover was an inscription,, nearly obliter- ; 
ated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, ] 
for the use of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head Tavern, ' 
and that it was " repaired and beautified by his successor, Mr. ^ 
John Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful description of this ,: 
august and venerable relic ; and I question whether the learned \ 
Scriblerius contemplated his Roman shield, or the Knights of \ 
the Round Table the long-sought San-greal, with more ex- i 
ultation. ] 

While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze. Dame | 
Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the interest it excited, i 
put in my hands a drinking-cup or goblet which also belonged j 
to the vestry, and was descended from the old Boar's Head. - 
It bore the inscription of having been the gift of Francis ; 



THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 115 

Wytliers, Knight, mid was held, she told mc, in exceeding great 
value, being considered very "antyke." This last opinion was 
strengthened by the shabby gentleman in the red nose and oil- 
cloth hat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal 
descendant from the valiant Bardolph. He suddenly aroused 
from his meditation on the pot of porter, and casting a kiiowing 
look at the goblet, exclaimed, " Ay, ay ! the head don't ache 
now that made that there article ! " 

The great importance attached to this memento of ancient 
revelry of modern churchwardens at first puzzled me ; but there 
is nothing sharpens the apprehension so much as antiquarian 
research; for I immediately perceived that this could be no 
other than the identical "parcel-gilt goblet" on which Falstatf 
made his loving but faithless vow to Dame Quickly, and which 
would, of course, be treasured up with care, among the regalia 
of her domains as a testimony of that solemn contract." 

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the goblet 
had been handed down from generation to generation. She also 
entertained me with many particulars concerning the worthy 
vestrymen who have seated themselves thus quietly on the 
stools of the ancient roisterers of Eastcheap, and, like so many 
commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honor of Shakespeare. 
These I forbear to relate, lest my readers should not be as curi- 
ous in these matters as myself Suffice it to say, the neighbors, 
one and all, about Eastcheap believe that Falstatf and his merry 
crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there are several 
legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant among the oldest 
frequenters of the Mason's Arms, w^hich they give as transmitted 
down from their forefathers ; and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hair- 
dresser, whose shop stands on the site of the old Boar's Head, 
has several dry jokes of Fat Jack's, not laid down in the books, 
with which he makes his customers ready to die of laughter. 

I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some further 
inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive meditation. His 



116 THE SKETCH BOOK 

head had declined a little on one side ; a deep sigh heaved from 
the very bottom of his stomach ; and, though I could not see a 
tear trembling in his eye, yet a moisture was evidently stealing 
from a corner of his mouth. I followed the direction of his eye 
through the door which stood open, and found it fixed wistfully 
on the savory breast of lamb roasting in dripping richness before 
the fire. 

I now called to mind that in the eagerness of my recondite 
investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. My 
bowels yearned with sympathy, and, putting in his hand a small 
token of my gratitude and goodness, I departed, with a hearty 
benediction on him. Dame Honeyball, and the parish club of 
Crooked Lane, not forgetting my shabby but sententious friend 
in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. 

Thus have I given a "tedious brief" account of this interest- 
ing research, for which, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, 
I can only plead my inexperience in this branch of literature, so 
deservedly popular at the present day. I am aware that a more 
skilful illustrator of the immortal bard would have swelled the 
materials I have touched upon to a good merchantable bulk, 
comprising the biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, 
and Robert Preston ; some notice of the eminent fishmongers of 
St. Michael's ; the history of Eastcheap, great and little ; private 
anecdotes of Dame Honeyball and her pretty daughter, whom I 
have not even mentioned ; to say nothing of a damsel tending 
the breast of lamb (and wdiom, by the way, I remarked to be a 
comely lass with a neat foot and ankle) ; — the whole enlivened by 
the riots of Wat Tyler and illuminated by the great fire of London. 

All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by future com- 
mentators, nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box and the 
"parcel-gilt goblet" which I have thus brought to light the 
subjects of future engravings, and almost as fruitful of volumi- 
nous dissertations and disputes as the shield of Achilles or the 
far-famed Portland Vase. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 117 

THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is bought, 
In time's great period shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muses' heavenly rays, 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
As idle sounds, of few or none are sought — 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

Drummond of Hawthornden. 

There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind in which we 
naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet 
haunt where we may indulge our reveries and build our air cas- 
tles undisturbed. In such a mood I was loitering about the old 
gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of 
wandering thought which one is apt to dignify with the name 
of reflection, when suddenly an irruption of madcap boys from 
Westminster school, playing at football, broke in upon the mo- 
nastic stillness of the place, making the vaulted passages and 
mouldering tombs echo with their merriment. I sought to take 
refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper into the soli- 
tudes of the pile, and applied to one of the vergers for admission 
to the library. He conducted me through a portal rich with the 
crumbling sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy 
passage leading to the chapter-house and the chamber in which 
Doomsday Book is deposited. Just within the passage is a 
small door on the left. To this the verger applied a key ; it 
was double locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if seldom 
used. We now ascended a dark, narrow staircase, and, passing 
through a second door, entered the library. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported by 
massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted by a 
row of Gothic windows at a considerable height from the floor, 



118 THE SKETCH BOOK } 

\ 
and which apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters, j 
An ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of the Church in | 
his robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a \ 
small gallery were the books, arranged in carved oaken cases. \ 
They consisted principally of old polemical writers, and were \ 
much more worn by time than use. In the centre of the library \ 
was a solitary table with two or three books on it, an inkstand ; 
without ink, and a few pens parched by long disuse. The place ' 
seemed fitted for quiet study and profound meditation. It was ; 
buried deep among the massive walls of the abbey and shut up \ 
from the tumult of the world. I could only hear now and then ! 
the shouts of the school-boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, 
and the sound of a bell tolling for prayers echoing soberly along \ 
the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merriment <. 
grew ftxinter and fainter, and at length died away; the bell \ 
ceased to toll, and a profound silence reigned through the dusky \ 
hall. ; 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in \ 
parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in \ 
a venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, however, I was \ 
beguiled by the solemn monastic air and lifeless quiet of the ; 
place into a train of musing. As I looked around upon the old ; 
volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves 
and apparently never disturbed in their repose, I could not but - 
consider the Ubrary a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, 
like mummies, are piously entombed and left to blacken and 1 
moulder in dusty oblivion. \ 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust \ 
aside with such indifference, cost some aching head ! how many 
weary days ! how many sleepless nights ! How have their . 
authors buried themselves in the solitude of their cells and 
cloisters, shut themselves up from the face of man, and the still j 
more blessed face of Nature ; and devoted themselves to painful ! 
research and intense reflection ! And all for what ? To occupy i 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 119 

an inch of dusty shelf — to have the titles of their works read 
now and then in a future age by some drowsy churchman or 
casual straggler like myself, and in another age be lost even to 
remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted immortality. 
A mere temporary rumor, a local sound ; like the tone of that 
bell which has tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a 
moment, lingering transiently in echo, and then passing away 
like a thing that was not ! 

While I sat half-mourning, half-meditating, these unprofitable 
speculations, with my head resting on my hand, I was thrum- 
ming with the other hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally 
loosened the clasps ; when, to my utter astonishment, the little 
book gave two or three yawns, like one awaking from a deep 
sleep, then a husky hem, and at length began to talk. At fi.rst 
its voice was very hoarse and broken, being much troubled by a 
cobweb which some studious spider had woven across it, and 
having probably contracted a cold from long exposure to the 
chills and damps of the abbey. In a short time, however, it 
became more distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent, 
conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was rather 
quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation what, in the present 
day, would be deemed barbarous ; but I shall endeavor, as far 
as I am able, to render it in modern parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of the world, about 
merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other such 
commonplace topics of literary repining, and complained bitterly 
that it had not been opened for more than two centuries — that 
the dean only looked now and then into the library, sometimes 
took down a volume or two, trifled with them for a few moments, 
and then returned them to their shelves. "What a plague do 
they mean ? " said the little quarto, winch I began to perceive 
was somewhat choleric — " what a plague do they mean by 
keeping several thousand volumes of us shut up here, and 
watched by a set of old vergers, like so many beauties in a 



120 THE SKETCH BOOK 

harem, merely to be looked at now and then by the deani 
Books were written to give pleasure and to be enjoyed ; and I 
would have a rule passed that the dean should pay each of us a 
visit at least once a year ; or, if he is not equal to the task, let 
them once in a while turn loose the whole school of Westminster 
among us, that at any rate we may now and then have an 
airing." 

"Softly, my worthy friend," replied I; "you are not aware 
how much better you are off than most books of your genera- 
tion. By being stored away in this ancient library you are like 
the treasured remains of those saints and monarchs which lie 
enshrined in the adjoining chapels, while the remains of your 
contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary course of Nature, 
have long since returned to dust." 

" Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking big, 
" I was written for all the world, not for the bookworms of 
an abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like 
other great contemporary works ; but here have I been clasped 
up for more than two centuries, and might have silently fallen 
a prey to these worms that are playing the very vengeance with 
my intestines if you had not by chance given me an opportunity 
of uttering a few last words before I go to pieces." 

" My good friend," rejoined I, " had you been left to the cir- 
culation of which you speak, you would long ere this have been 
no more. To judge from your physiognomy, you are now well 
stricken in years : very few of your contemporaries can be at 
present in existence, and those few owe their longevity to being 
immured like yourself in old libraries ; which, suffer me to add, 
instead of likening to harems, you might more properly and 
gratefully have compared to those infirmaries attached to reli- 
gious establishments for the benefit of the old and decrepit, and 
where, by quiet fostering and no employment, they often endure 
to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. You talk of your 
contemporaries as if in circulation. Where do we meet witn 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 121 

their works 1 What do we hear of Robert Grosteste of Lincoln 1 ° 
No one could have toiled harder than he for immortality. He is 
said to have written nearly two hundred volumes. He built, as 
it were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate his name : but, alas ! 
the pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few fragments are 
scattered in various libraries, where they are scarcely disturbed 
even by the antiquarian. What do we hear of Giraldus Cam- 
brensis,° the historian, antiquary, philosopher, theologian, and 
poet ? He declined two bishoprics that he might shut himself 
up and write for posterity ; but posterity never inquires after 
his labors. What of Henry of Huntingdon, ° who, besides a 
learned history of England, wrote a treatise on the contempt of 
the world, which the world has revenged by forgetting him 1 
What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, ° styled the miracle of his 
age in classical composition 1 Of his three great heroic poems, 
one is lost forever, excepting a mere fragment ; the others are 
known only to a few of the curious in literature; and as to his 
love verses and epigrams, they have entirely disappeared. 
What is in current use of John Waliis ° the Franciscan, who 
acquired the name of the tree of life ? Of William of Malms- 
bury ° — of Simeon of Durham ° — of Benedict of Peterbor- 
ough ° — of John Hanvill of St. Albans — of " 

"Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, "how old 
do you think me 1 You are talking of authors that lived long 
before my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so that 
they in a manner expatriated themselves and deserved to be 
forgotten ; ° but I, sir, was ushered into the world from the 
press of the renowned Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in 
my own native tongue, at a time when the language had become 
fixed ; and indeed I was considered a model of pure and elegant 
English." 

(I should observe that these remarks were couched in such 
intolerably antiquated terms that I have had infinite difficulty 
in rendering them into modern phraseology.) 



122 THE SKETCH BOOK 

"I cry you mercy," said I, "for mistaking your age; but it 
matters little : almost all the writers of your time have likewise 
passed into forgetfulness, and De Worde's publications are mere 
literary rarities among book-collectors. The purity and stability 
Df language, too, on which you found your claims to perpetuity, 
have been the fallacious dependence of authors of every age, 
even back to the times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester," who 
ivrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon. ° Even now 
many talk of Spenser's ' well of pure English undefiled,' as if 
the language ever sprang from a "well or fountain-head, and was 
not rather a mere confluence of various tongues, perpetually 
subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this wliich has 
made English literature so extremely mutable, and the reputa- 
tion built upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can be committed 
to something more permanent and unchangeable than such a me- 
dium, even thought must share the fate of everything else, and 
fall into decay. This should serve as a check upon the vanity 
and exultation of the most popular writer. He finds the lan- 
guage in which he has embarked his fame gradually altering and 
subject to the dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. 
He looks back and beholds the early authors of his country, 
once the favorites of their day, supplanted by modern writers. 
A few short ages have covered them v»^ith obscurity, and their 
merits can only be relished by the quaint taste of the book-worm. 
And such, he anticipates, will be the fate of his own w^ork, 
which, however it may be admired in its day and held up as 
a model of purity, will in the course of years grow antiquated 
and obsolete, until it shall become almost as unintelligible in its 
native land as an Egyptian obelisk or one of those Runic in- 
scriptions said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," 
added I, with some emotion, " when I contemplate a modern 
library, filled with new works in all the braveiy of rich gilding 
and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep, like the good 
Xerxes when he surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splen- 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 123 

dor of military array, and reflected that in one hundred years not 
one of them would be in existence." 

"Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see how 
it is : these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old 
authors. I suppose nothing is read nowadays but Sir Phihp 
Sidney's Arcadia ° Sackville's ° stately plays and Mirror for 
Magiiitrate», or the fine-spun euphuisms of the 'unparalleled 
John Lyly.'"° 

" There you are again mistaken," said I ; " the writers whom 
you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you 
were last in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir 
Philip Sidney's Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly 
predicted by his admirers, ° and which, in truth, was full of 
noble thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns of language, 
is now scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has strutted into 
obscurity ; and even Lyly, though his writings were once the 
delight of a court and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is 
now scarcely known even by name. A whole crowd of authors 
who wrote and wrangled at the time have likewise gone down, 
with all their writings and their controversies. Wave after 
wave of succeeding literature has rolled over them, until they 
are buried so deep that it is only now and then that some in- 
dustrious diver after fragments of antiquity brings up a speci- 
men for the gratification of the curious. 

"For my part," I continued, "I consider this mutability of 
language a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit of the 
world at large, and of authors in particular. To reason from 
analogy, we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes of vege- 
tables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short 
time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their succes- 
sors. Were not this the case, the fecundity of nature would 
be a grievance instead of a blessing. The earth would groan 
with rank and excessive vegetation, and its surface become a 
tangled wilderness. In like manner, the works of genius and 



124 THE SKETCH BOOK 1 

\ 
learning decline and make way for subsequent productions. \ 
Language gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings : 
of authors who have flourished their allotted time ; otherwise ' 
the creative powers of genius would overstock the world, and ; 
the mind would be completely bewildered in the endless mazes of i 
literature. Formerly there were some restraints on this excessive I 
multiplication. Works had to be transcribed by hand, which ; 
was a slow and laborious operation ; they were written either on \ 
parchment, which was expensive, so that one work was often ! 
erased to make way for another; or on papyrus, which was 
fragile and extremely perishable. Authorship was a limited i 
and unprofitable craft pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure \ 
and solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts i 
was slow and costly, and confined almost entirely to monasteries. \ 
To these circumstances it may, in some measure, be owing that ; 
we have not been inundated by the intellect of antiquity — that j 
the fountains of thought have not been broken up and modern ; 
genius drowned in the deluge. But the inventions of paper and \ 
the press have put an end to all these restraints. They have i 
made every one a writer, and enabled every mind to pour itself | 
into print, and diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world. ; 
The consequences are alarming. The stream of literature has \ 
swollen into a torrent — augmented into a river — expanded into \ 
a sea. A few centuries since five or six hundred manuscripts : 
constituted a great library ; but what would you say to libraries, ' 
such as actually exist, containing three or four hundred thou- j 
sand volumes, legions of authors at the same time busy, and the \ 
press going on with fearfully increasing activity to double and \ 
quadruple the number 1 Unless some unforeseen mortality : 
should break out among the progeny of the Muse, now that she '' 
has become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere \ 
fluctuation of language will not be sufficient. Criticism may do , 
much. It increases with the increase of literature, and resem- .; 
bles one of those salutary checks on population spoken of by ] 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 125 

economists. All possible encouragement, therefore, should be 
given to the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear all will 
be in vain ; let criticism do what it may, writers will write, 
printers will print, and the world will inevitably be overstocked 
with good books. It will soon be the emjiloyment of a lifetime 
merely to learn their names. Many a man of passable informa- 
tion at the present day reads scarcely anything but reviews, and 
before long a man of erudition will be little better than a mere 
walking catalogue." 

"My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most 
drearily in my face, " excuse my interrupting you, but I per- 
ceive you are rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of an 
author who w^as making some noise just as I left the world. 
His reputation, however, w^as considered quite temporary. The 
learned shook their heads at him, for he was a poor half-edu- 
cated varlet, that knew little of Latin, and nothing of Greek, 
and had been obliged to run the country for deer-stealing. I 
think his name was Shakespeare. I presume he soon sunk into 
oblivion." 

"On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to- that very man that 
the literature of his period has experienced a duration beyond 
the ordinary terra of English literature. There rise authors 
now and then who seem proof against the mutability of lan- 
guage because they have rooted themselves in the unchanging 
principles of human nature. They are like gigantic trees that 
we sometimes see on the banks of a stream, which by tlieirvast 
and deep roots, penetrating through the mere surface and laying 
hold on the very foundations of the earth, preserve the soil 
around them from being sw^ept away by the ever-flowing current, 
and hold up many a neighboring plant, and perhaps worthless 
weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with Shakespeare, whom 
we behold defying the encroachments of time, retaining in mod- 
ern use the language and literature of his day, and giving dura 
tion to many an indifierent author, merely from having flourished 



126 THE SKETCH BOOK 

m his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually as- : 
suming the tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a pro- i 
fusion of commentators, who, like clambering vines and creepers, : 
almost bury the noble plant that upholds them." ; 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, ] 
until at length he broke out into a plethoric fit of laughter that ; 
had wellnigh choked him by reason of his excessive corpulency. 
" Mig]]ty well ! " cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, J 
"mighty well ! and so you would persuade me that the litera- i 
ture of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer ! 
by a man without learning ! by a poet ! forsooth — a poet ! " \ 
And here he wheezed forth another fit of laughter. ' 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which, j 
however, I pardoned on account of his having flourished in a less \ 
polished age. I determined, nevertheless, not to give up my \ 
point. I 

"Yes," resumed I, positively, "a poet; for of all writers he \ 
has the best chance for immortality. Others may write from 
the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart will always j 
understand him. He is the faithful portrayer of Nature, whose ' 
features are always the same and always interesting. Prose ■ 
writers are voluminous and unwieldy ; their pages crowded with ; 
commonplaces, and their thoughts expanded into tediousness. \ 
But with the true poet everything is terse, touching, or brilliant. ! 
He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He i 
illustrates them by everything that he sees most striking in ; 
nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of human life, \ 
such as it is passing before him. His writings, therefore, con- j 
tain the spirit — the aroma, if I may use the phrase — of the 1 
age in which he lives. They are caskets which enclose within ■ 
a small compass the wealth of the language — its family jewels, j 
which are thus transmitted in a portable form to posterity. \ 
The setting may occasionally be antiquated, and require now \ 
and then to be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer ; but the brill' J 



RURAL FUNERALS 127 

iancy and intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast 
a look back over the long reach of literaiy history. What vast 
valleys of dulness filled with monkish legends and academical 
controversies ! What bogs of theological speculations ! What 
dreary wastes of metaphysics ! Here and there only do we be- 
hold the heaven-illumined bards, elevated like beacons on their 
widely- separated heights, to transmit the pure light of poetical 
intelligence from age to age."° 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the 
poets of the day when the sudden opening of the door caused 
nie to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to inform 
aae that it was time to close the library. I sought to have a 
parting word with the quarto, but the worthy little tome was 
jilent ; the clasps were closed : and it looked perfectly uncon- 
scious of all that had passed. I have been to the library two 
or tliree times since, and have endeavored to draw it into fur- 
ther conversation, but in vain ; and whether all this rambling 
colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another of those 
odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never, to this 
moment, been able to discover. 



RURAL FUNERALS 

Here's a few flowers ! but about midnight more : 
The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night 

Are strewiugs fitt'st for graves 

You were as flowers now withered ; even so 
These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. 

Cymbeline. 

Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural 
life which still linger in some parts of England are those of 
strewing flowers before the funerals and planting them at the 
gi'aves of departed friends. These, it is said, are the remains 



128 THE SKETCH BOOK 

of some of the rites of the primitive Church ; but they are of j 
still higher antiquity, having been observed among the Greeks ! 
and Romans, and frequently mentioned by their writers, and i 
were no doubt the spontaneous tributes of unlettered affection j 
originating long before art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow : 
into song or story it on the monument. They are now only to ; 
be met with in the most distant and retired places of the king- ] 
dom, where fashion and innovation have not been able to throng . 
in and trample out all the curious and interesting traces of the i 
olden time. 

In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the corpse ! 
lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in one of the \ 
wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : — I 

\ 
White his shroud as the mountain snow, i 

Larded all with sweet flowers ; \ 

Which be-wept to the grave did go, 
With true love showers. 

There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed in 
some of the remote villages of the south at the funeral of a \ 
female who has died young and unmarried. A chaplet of white ' 
flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl nearest in age, . 
size, and resemblance, and is afterwards hung up in the church i 
over the accustomed seat of the deceased. These chaplets are : 
sometimes made of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and i 
inside of them is generally a pair of white gloves. They are t 
intended as emblems of the purity of the deceased, and the j 
crown of glory which she has received in heaven. 

In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried to the 
grave with the singing of psalms and hymns — a kind of 
triumph, "to show," says Bourne, "that they have finished 
their course with joy, and are become conquerors." This, I am 
informed, is observed in some of the northern counties, particu- 
larly in Northumberland, and it has a pleasing though melan- 
choly effect to hear of a still evening in some lonely country 



RURAL FUNERALS 129 

scene the mournful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a 
distance, and to see the train slowly moving along the landscape. 

Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
Thy harmless and unhaunted ground, 
And as we sing thy dirge, we will. 

The daffodill 
And other flowers lay upon 
The altar of our love, thy stone. — Herrick. 

There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to the 
passing funeral in these sequestered places ; for such spectacles, 
occurring among quiet abodes of Nature, sink deep into the 
soul. As the mourning train approaches he pauses, uncovered, 
to let it go by ; he then follows silently in the rear ; sometimes 
quite to the grave, at other times for a few hundred yards, and, 
having paid this tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and 
resumes his journey. 

The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the English 
character, and gives it some of its most touching and ennobling 
graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic customs, and in the 
solicitude shown by the common people for an honored and a peace- 
ful grave. The humblest peasant, whatever may be his lowly lot 
while living, is anxious that some little respect may be paid to 
his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury,° describing the " faire and 
happy milkmaid," observes, " thus lives she, and all her care is, 
that she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers 
stucke upon her winding sheet." The poets, too, who always 
breathe the feeling of a nation, continually advert to this fond 
solicitude about the grave. In The Maid's Tragedy, by 
Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the 
kind, describing the capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted 
girl : — 

When she sees a bank 

Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 

Her servants, what a pretty place it were 

To bury lovers in ; and make her maids 

Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 



130 THE SKETCH BOOK "i 

The custom of decorating graves was once universally preva- | 

lent : osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the turf \ 

uninjured, and about them were planted evergreens and flowers. ^ 

"We adorn their graves," says Evelyn, ° in his Sylva, "with . 

flowers and redolent plants, just emblems of the life of man, ■, 

which has been compared in Holy Scripture to those fading - 

beauties whose roots, being buried in dishonor, rise again in \ 

glory." This usage has now become extremely rare in England ; \ 

but it may still be met with in the churchyards of retired \ 

villages, among the Welsh mountains ; and I recollect an i 

instance of it at the small town of Ruthven, which lies at the j 

head of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have been told also j 

by a friend, w^ho was present at the funeral of a young girl in j 

Glamorganshire, that the female attendants had their aprons j 

full of flowers, which, as soon as the body was interred, they \ 

stuck about the grave. \ 

He noticed several graves which had been decorated in the 

same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck in the \ 

ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and might j 

be seen in various states of decay, some drooping, others quite ' 

perished. They were afterwards to be supplanted by holly, j 

rosemary, and other evergreens, which on some graves had | 

grown to great luxuriance, and overshadowed the tombstones. \ 

There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the arrange- • 

ment of these rustic ofi'erings, that had something in it truly ; 

poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with the lily, to : 

form a general emblem of frail mortality. " This sweet ! 

flower," said Evelyn, " borne on a branch set with thorns and \ 
accompanied with the lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our 

fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and transitory life, which, making I 

so f[iir a show for a time, is not yet without its thorns and j 

crosses." The nature and color of the flowers, and of the \ 

ribbons with which they were tied, had often a particular ; 

reference to the qualities or story of the deceased, or were ; 



RURAL FUNERALS 131 

expressive of the feelings of the mourner. In an old poem, 
entitled "Corydon's Doleful Knell," a lover specifies the deco- 
rations he intends to use : — 

A garland shall be framed 

By art and nature's skill, 
Of sundry-colored Howers, 

In token of good-will. 

And sundry-colored ribbons 

On it I will bestow ; 
But chiefly blacke and yellowe 

With her to grave shall go. 

I'll deck her tomb with flowers 

The rarest ever seen ; 
And with my tears as showers 

I'll keep them fresh and green. 

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a 
virgin ; her chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in token of 
her spotless innocence, though sometimes black ribbons were 
intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors. The red 
rose was occasionally used in remembrance of such as had been 
remarkable for benevolence ; but roses in general were appropri- 
ated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom 
was not altogether extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the 
county of Surrey, " where the maidens yearly planted and 
decked the graves of their defunct sweethearts with rose 
bushes." And Camden likewise remarks, in his Britannia: 
'' Here is also a certain custom, observed time out of mind, of 
planting rose trees upon the graves, especially by the young 
men and maids who have lost their loves ; so that this church- 
yard is now full of them." 

When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, emblems 
of a more gloomy character were used, such as the yew and 
cypress, and if flowers were strewn, they were of the most 
melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq. 
(published in 1651), is the following stanza : — 



132 THE SKETCH BOOK 



Yet strew 'i 

Upon my dismall grave i 

Such offerings as you have, | 

Forsaken cypresse and yewe ; r 

For kinder flowers can take no birth ^ 

Or growth from such unhappy earth. i 

In The Maid's Tragedy a pathetic little air is introducerl, \ 
illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females 
who had been disappointed in love : — i 

i 

Lay a garland on my hearse, J 

Of tlie dismall yew, ] 

Maidens, willow branches wear, i 

Say I died true. >■ 

My love was false, but I am firm, | 

From my hour of birth ; s 

Upon my buried body lie ; 

Lightly, gentle earth. ■ 

The natural eifect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and \ 
elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the purity of j 
sentiment and the unaffected elegance of thought which per- \ 
vaded the whole of these funeral observances. Thus it was j 
an especial precaution that none but sweet-scented evergreens \ 
and flowers should be employed. The intention seems to have | 
been to soften the horrors of the tomb, to beguile the mind ! 
from brooding over the disgraces of perishing mortality, and to j 
associate the memory of the deceased with the most delicate 
and beautiful objects in nature. There is a dismal process 
going on in the grave, ere dust can return to its kindred dust, 
which the imagination shrinks from contemplating; and we i 
seek still to think of the form we have loved, with those refined 
associations which it awakened when blooming before us in 
youth and beauty. " Lay her i' the earth," says Laertes, of his 
virgin sister, — 

And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
May violets spring ! 



RURAL FUNERALS 133 

Herrick,° also, in his "Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a 
fragrant tlow of poetical thought and image, which in a manner 
embalms the dead in the recollections of the living : — 

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 

And make this place all Paradise : 

May sweets grow here ! and smoke them hence 

Fat frankincense. 
Let balme and cassia send their scent 
From out thy maiden monument. 

***** 
May all shie maids at wonted hours 
Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers I 
May virgins, when they come to mourn 

Male incense burn 
Upon thine altar ! then return 
And leave thee sleeping in thine urn. 

I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older British 
poets, who wrote when these rites were more prevalent, and de- 
lighted frequently to allude to them ; but I have already quoted 
more than is necessary. I cannot, however, refrain from giving 
a passage from Shakespeare, even though it should appear trite, 
which illustrates the emblematical meaning often conveyed in 
these floral tributes, and at the same time possesses that magic 
of language and appositeness of imagery for which he stands 
pre-eminent. 

With fairest flowers, 
Whilst summer lasts, and 1 live here, Fidele, 
I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack 
The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor 
The azured harebell, like thy veins; no, nor 
The leaf of eglantine ; whom not to slander, 
Outsweetened not thy breath. 

There is certainly something more affecting in these prompt 
and spontaneous offerings of Nature than in the most costly 
monuments of art ; the hand strews the flower while the heart 
is warm, and the tear falls on the grave as affection is binding 
the osier round the sod ; but pathos expires under the slow labor 



134 THE SKETCH BOOK 

of the chisel, and is chilled among the cold conceits of sculpturedJ 
marble. . I 

It is greatly to be regretted that a custom so truly elegant ] 
and touching has disappeared from general use, and exists only | 
in the most remote and insignificant villages. But it seems as 
if poetical custom always shuns the walks of cultivated society.] 
In proportion as people grow polite they cease to be poeticalj 
They talk of poetry, but they have learnt to check its free imJ 
pulses, to distrust its sallying emotions, and to supply its most j 
affecting and picturesque usages by studied form and pompous I 
ceremonial. Few pageants can be more stately and frigid^ 
than an English funeral in town. It is made up of show andij 
gloomy parade — mourning carriages, mourning horses, mourn-( 
ing plumes, and hireling mourners, who make a mockery off 
grief. " There is a grave digged," says Jeremy Taylor,° " and I 
a solemn mourning, and a great talk in the neighborhood, andl 
when the dales are finished, they shall be, and they shall be remem^l 
bered no more." The associate in the gay and crowded cityl 
is soon forgotten ; the hurrying succession of new intimates andf 
new pleasures eff'aces him from our minds, and the very scenesi 
and circles in which he moved are incessantly fluctuating. But'!^ 
funerals in the country are solemnly impressive. The strokq 
of death makes a wider space in the village circle, and is ai 
awful event in the tranquil uniformity of rural life. The p: 
ing bell tolls its knell in every ear ; it steals with its pervad 
ing melancholy over hill and vale, and saddens all the landscape. 

The fixed and unchanging features of the country also per-ii 
petuate the memory of the friend with whom we once enjoye(3|i5 
them, who was the companion of our most retired walks, and* 
gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea is associate ij 
with every charm of Nature ; we hear his voice in the ecy | 
which he once delighted to awaken ; his spirit haunts the gxom i 
which he once frequented ; we think of him in the wild u plane fai 
solitude or amidst the pensive beauty of the valley. In 



tb.'P 

11 



RURAL FUNERALS 135 

reshness of joyous morning we remember his beaming smiles 
,nd bounding gayety ; and when sober evening returns with its 
•athering shadows and subduing quiet, we call to mind many 
, twilight hour of gentle talk and sweet-souled melancholy. 

Each lonely place shall him restore, 

r'or him the tear he duly shed ; 
Beloved till life can charm no more ; 

And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. 

: Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the deceased 
1 the country is that the grave is more immediately in sight 
f the survivors. They pass it on their way to prayer ; it meets 
iaeir eyes when their hearts are softened by the exercises of 
evotion ; they linger about it on the Sabbath, when the mind 
r. disengaged from worldly cares and most disposed to turn aside 
•om present pleasures and present loves and to sit down among 
le solemn mementoes of the past. In North Wales the peas- 
latry kneel and pray over the graves of their deceased friends 
i)r several Sundays after the interment ; and where the tender 
' te of strewing and planting flowers is still practised, it is 
[ways renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, 
[hen the season brings the companion of former festivity more 
[ividly to mind. It is also invariably performed by the nearest 
[datives and friends ; no menials nor hirelings are employed, 
tad if a neighbor yields assistance, it would be deemed an in- 
t'llt to offer compensation. 

• I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because as it 
one of the last, so is it one of the holiest, ofiices of love. The 
ave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that the divine 
ission of the soul manifests its superiority to the instinctive 
apulse of mere animal attachment. The latter must be con- 
nually refreshed and kept alive by the presence of its object, 
it the love that is seated in the soul can live on long remem- 
rance. The mere inclinations of sense languish and decline 
ith the charms which excited them, and turn with shudder- 



136 THE SKETCH BOOK 

ing disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb; but it is' 
thence that truly spiritual affection rises, purified from every, 
sensual desire, and returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and, 
sanctify the heart of the survivor. ; 

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which w® 
refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal,' 
every other affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider it ' 
a duty to keep open, this affliction we cherish and brood over 
in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget' 
the infant that perished like a blossom from her arras, thouglTl 
every recollection is a pang 1 Where is the child that would : 
willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember; 
be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, wouldjj 
forget the friend over whom he mourns 1 Who, even when the^? 
tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved, when he I 
feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal,!] 
would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetful- ii 
ness? No, the love which survives the tomb is one of thej 
noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has like-J 
wise its delights ; and when the overwhelming burst of grief 
is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden! 
anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of allj 
that we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation odI 
all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out 
such a sorrow from the heart ? Though it may sometimes throw 
a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a' 
deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange' 
it even for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry ? N^l 
there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is 
remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms 
of the living. Oh, the grave ! the grave ! It buries every error 
covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment ! From itf 
peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollec 
tions. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy! 



RURAL FUNERALS 137 

and not feel a compunctious throb that he should ever have warred 
with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him 1 
But the grave of those we loved — what a place for medita- 
tion ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole 
history of virtue and gentleness, and a thousand endearments 
lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of 
intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the 
solemn, awful tenderness, of the parting scene. The bed of 
death, with ail its stifled griefs — its noiseless attendance — its 
mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring 
love ! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling — oh, how thrilling ! — 
[pressure of the hand ! Tlie faint, faltering accents, struggling 
in death to give one more assurance of affection ! The last fond 
look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the thresh- 
Dld of existence ! 

Ay, go to the grave of buried love and meditate ! There 
settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit 
unrequited — every past endearment unregarded, of that de- 
oarted being who can never — never — never return to be 
soothed by thy contrition ! 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul 
|)r a furrow to the silvered brow of an aftectionate parent ; if 
hou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that 
ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment 
f thy kindness or thy truth ; if thou art a friend, and hast ever 
vronged, in thought or word or deed, the spirit that generously 
onfided in thee ; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one 
mmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still 
^eneath thy feet, — then be sure that every unkind look, every 
ingracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging 
>ack upon thy memory and knocking dolefully at thy soul ; then 
>e sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the 
■rave, and utter the unheard groan and pour the unavailing 
ear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. 



I 

138 THE SKETCH BOOK f 

Then weave thy chaplet of flowers and strew the beauties of 
Nature about the grave ; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, 
with these tender yet futile tributes of regret; but take warn- 
ing by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, 
and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge 
of thy duties to the living. 

In writing the preceding article it was not intended to give a 
full detail of the funeral customs of the English peasantry, but 
merely to furnish a few hints and quotations illustrative of 
particular rites, to be appended, by way of note, to another 
paper, which has been withheld. The article swelled in-i 
sensibly into its present form, and this is mentioned as an 
apology for so brief and casual a notice of these usages afte> 
they have been amply and learnedly investigated in othej 
works. 

I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this custom 
of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other countries be-( 
sides England. Indeed, in some it is much more general, ano 
is observed even by the rich and fashionable ; but it is thec 
apt to lose its simplicity and to degenerate into affectatiod 
Bright, in his travels in Lower Hungary, tells of monuments ofi 
marble and recesses formed for retirement, with seats placed 
among bowers of greenhouse plants, and that the graves gener^ 
ally are covered with the gayest flowers of the season. He 
gives a casual picture of filial piety which I cannot but tran 
scribe ; for I trust it is as useful as it is delightful to illustrat 
the amiable virtues of the sex. "When I was at Berlin," say 
he, "I followed the celebrated Iffiand to the grave. Minglet 
with some pomp you might trace much real feeling. In th 
midst of the ceremony my attention was attracted by a youn; 
woman who stood on a mound of earth newly covered with tur: 
which she anxiously protected from the feet of the passin 
crowd. It was the tomb of her parent; and the figure o 



RURAL FUNERALS 139 

this affectionate daughter presented a monument more striking 
than the most costly work of art." 

I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration which 
I once met with among the mountains of Switzerland. It was 
at the village of Gersau, which stands on the borders of the 
Lake of Lucerne, at the foot of Mount Rigi. It was once the 
capital of a miniature republic shut up between the Alps and 
the lake, and accessible on the land side only by footpaths. 
The whole force of the republic did not exceed six hundred 
fighting men, and a few miles of circumference, scooped out as 
it were from the bosom of the mountains, comprised its terri- 
tory. The village of Gersau seemed separated from the rest of 
the world, and retained the golden simplicity of a purer age. 
It had a small church, and a burying -ground adjoining. At the 
heads of the graves were placed crosses of wood or iron. On 
some were afiixed miniatures, rudely executed, but evidently 
attempts at likenesses of the deceased. On the crosses were 
hung chaplets of flowers, some withering, others fresh, as if 
occasionally renewed. I paused with interest at this scene : I 
felt that I was at the source of poetical description, for these 
were the beautiful but unaffected offerings of the heart which 
poets are fain to record. In a gayer and more populous place 
I should have suspected them to have been suggested by fac- 
titious sentiment derived from books ; but the good people of 
Gersau knew little of books ; there was not a novel nor a love- 
poem in the village, and I question whether any peasant of the 
place dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chaplet for the 
grave of his mistress, that he was fulfilling one of the most fanci- 
ful rites of poetical devotion, and that he was practically a poet 



140 THE SKETCH BOOK 

THE INN KITCHEN 
Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? 



Falstaff. 



During a journey that I once made through the Netherlands, 
I had arrived one evening at the Pomme d'Or, the principal inn 
of a small Flemish village. It was after the hour of the table 
d'hote, so that I was obliged to make a solitary supper from the 
relics of its ampler board. The weather was chilly ; I was 
seated alone in one end of a great gloomy dining-room, and, my 
repast being over, I had the prospect before me of a long, dull 
evening, without any visible means of enlivening it. I sum- 
moned mine host and requested something to read ; he brought 
me the whole literary stock of his household, a Dutch family 
Bible, an almanac in the same language, and a number of old 
Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the latter, read- 1 
ing old news and stale criticisms, my ear was now and thenij 
struck with bursts of laughter which seemed to proceed from the 
kitchen. Every one that has travelled on the Continent must -j 
know how favorite a resort the kitchen of a country inn is to • 
the middle and inferior order of travellers, particularly in that ; 
equivocal kind of weather when a fire becomes agreeable toward 
evening. I threw aside the newspaper and explored my way to 
the kitchen, to take a peep at the group that appeared to be so 
merry. It was- composed partly of travellers who had arrived 
some hours before in a diligence, and partly of the usual attend- 
ants and hangers-on of inns. They were seated round a great 
burnishe<l stove, that might have been mistaken for an altar at 
which they were worshipping. It was covered with various 
kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness, among which steamed 
and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. A large lamp threw a 
strong mass of light upon the group, bringing out many odd 



i 



THE INN KITCHEN 141 

features in strong relief. Its yellow rays partially illumined 
the spacious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote corners, 
except where they settled in mellow radiance on the broad side 
of a flitch of bacon or were . reflected back from well-scoured 
utensils that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strapping 
Flemish lass, with long golden pendants in her ears and a neck- 
lace with a golden heart suspended to it, was the presiding 
priestess of the temple. 

Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most of 
them with some kind of evening potation. I found their mirth 
was occasioned by anecdotes which a little swarthy Frenchman, 
with a dry weazen face and large whiskers, was giving of his 
love-adventures ; at the end of each of which there was one of 
those bursts of honest, unceremonious laughter in which a man 
indulges in that temple of true liberty, an inn. 

As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious, blus- 
tering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and listened to a 
variety of travellers' tales, some very extravagant and most very 
dull. All of them, however, have faded from my treacherous 
memory except one, which I will endeavor to relate. I fear, 
however, it derived its chief zest from the manner in which it 
was told, and the peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. 
He was a corpulent old Swiss, who had tlie look of a veteran 
traveller. He was dressed in a tarnished green travelling-jacket, 
with a broad belt round his waist, and a pair of overalls, with 
buttons from the hips to the ankles. He was of a full, rubicund 
countenance, with a double chin, aquiline nose, and a pleasant, 
twinkling eye. His hair was light, and curled from under an 
: old green velvet travelling-cap stuck on one side of his head. 
I He was interrupted more than once by the arrival of guests, or 
! the remarks of his auditors ; and paused now and then to re- 
j plenish his pipe ; at which times he had generally a roguish leer, 
and a sly joke, for the buxom kitchen-maid. 

I wish my readers could imagine the old fellow lolling in a 



142 THE SKETCH BOOK 

huge arm-chair, one arm akimbo, the other holding a curiously 
twisted tobacco-pipe, formed of genuine ecume de mer, decorated 
with silver chain and silken tassel, — his head cocked on one 
side, and a whimsical cut of the eye occasionally, as he related 
the following story : — 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 
A traveller's tale 

He that supper for is dight, 
He lyes full cold, I trow, this night! 
Yestreen to chamber I him led, 

This night Gray-Steel has made his bed. i 

Sir Eger, Sir Grahame, and Sir Gray-Steel. ; 

On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild , 
and romantic tract of Upper Germany that lies not far from the ; 
confluence of the Main and the Rhine, there stood, many, many i 
years since, the castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It is now ] 
quite fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech trees and J 
dark firs ; above which, however, its old watch-tower may still | 
be seen struggling, like the former possessor I have mentioned, to •; 
carry a high head and look down upon the neighboring country, j; 

The baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenel- ] 
lenbogen,° and inherited the relics of the property and all the ! 
pride of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition of his | 
predecessors had much impaired the family possessions, yet the 
baron still endeavored to keep up some show of former state. | 
The times were peaceable, and the German nobles in general ^ 
had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles' j 
nests among the mountains, and had built more convenient resi- ! 
deuces in the valleys ; still the baron remained proudly drawn i 
up in his little fortress, cherishing with hereditary inveteracy all 
the old family feuds, so that he was on ill terms with some of i 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 143 

'bis nearest neighbors, on account of disputes that had happened 
between their great-great-grandfathers. 

The baron had but one child, a daughter, but Nature, when 
she grants but one child, always compensates by making it a 
prodigy ; and so it was with the daughter of the baron. All 
the nurses, gossips, and country cousins assured her father that 
she had not her equal for beauty in all Germany ; and who 
should know better than they ? She had, moreover, been 
brought up with great care under the superintendence of two 
maiden aunts, who had spent some years of their early life at 
one of the little German courts, and were skilled in all branches 
of knowledge necessary to the education of a fine lady. Under 
their instructions she became a miracle of accomplishments. By 
the time she was eighteen she could embroider to admiration, 
and had worked whole histories of the saints in tapestry with 
such strength of expression in their countenances that they 
looked like so many souls in purgatory. She could read with- 
out great difficulty, and had spelled her way through several 
Church legends and almost all the chivalric wonders of the 
Heldenhuch, She had even made considerable proficiency in 
writing ; could sign her own name ^ithout missing a letter, and 
so legibly that her aunts could read it without spectacles. She 
excelled in making little, elegant, good-for-nothing, lady-like 
knickknacks of all kinds, was versed in the most abstruse danc- 
ing of the day, played a number of airs on the harp and guitar, 
and knew all the tender ballads of the Minnelieders by heart. 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in 
their younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant 
guardians and strict censors of the conduct of their niece ; for 
there is no duenna so rigidly prudent and inexorably decorous 
as a superannuated coquette. She was rarely suffered out of 
their sight ; never went beyond the domains of the castle unless 
well attended, or rather well watched ; had continual lectures 
read to her about strict decorum and implicit obedience ; and, 



144 THE SKETCH BOOK * 1 

as to men — pah ! — she was taught to hold them at such a; 
distance and in such absolute distrust that, unless properly 
authorized, she would not have cast a glance upon the hand- 
somest cavalier in the world — no, not if he were even dying at 
her feet. 

The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent. \ 
The young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. 
While others were wasting their sweetness in the glare of the 
world, and liable to be plucked and thrown aside by every hand, 
she was coyly blooming into fresh and lovely womanhood under 
the protection of those immaculate spinsters, like a rosebud 
blushing forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon 
her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that, though all the i 
other young ladies in the world might go astray, yet, thank | 
Heaven, nothing of the kind could%appen to the heiress of ' 
Katzenellenbogen. 

But, however scantily the Baron . .Yon Landshort might be 
provided with children, his household was by no means a small 
one ; for Providence had enriched him with abundance of poor 
relations. They, one and sdl, possessed the affectionate disposi- 
tion common to humble (j™;ives — were wonderfully attached 
to the baron, and took every pbesible occasion to come in swarms 
and enliven the castle. Ail family festivals were commemorated 
by these good people at the baron's expense ; and when they 
were filled with good cheer they would declare that there was 
nothing on earth so delightful as these family meetings, these 
jubilees of the heart. 

The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it 
swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of being the 
greatest man in the little world about him. He loved to tell 
long stories about the stark old warriors whose portraits looked 
grimly down from the walls around, and he found no listeners 
equal to those who fed at his expense. He was much given to 
the marvellous and a firm believer in all those supernatural tales 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 145 

with which every mountain and valley in Germany abounds. 
The faith of his guests exceeded even his own : they listened to 
every tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never 
failed to be astonished, even though repeated for the hundredth 
time. Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort, the oracle of his 
table, the absolute monarch of his little territory, and happy, 
above all things, in the persuasion that he was the wisest man 
of the age. 

At the time of which my story treats there was a great 
family gathering at the castle on an affair of the utmost impor- 
tance : it was to receive the destined bridegroom of the baron's 
daughter. A negotiation had been carried on between the father 
and an old nobleman of Bavaria to unite the dignity of their 
houses by the marriage of their children. The preliminaries had 
been conducted with proper punctilio. The young people were 
betrothed without seeing each- .other, and the time w^as 
appointed for the marriage ceremony. The young Count Von 
Altenburg had been recalled from the. army for the purpose, 
and was actually on his way to the baron's to receive his bride. 
Missives had been received from him from Wurtzburg, where 
he was accidentally detained, mentioning the day and hour 
when he might be expected to ^mv<|f 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a 
suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with 
uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended her toilet, 
and quarrelled the whole morning about every article of her 
dress. The young lady had taken advantage of their contest 
to follow the bent of her own taste ; and fortunately it was a 
good one. She looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could 
desire, and the flutter of expectation heightened the lustre of 
her charms. 

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle 
heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in revery, 
all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on in her little 



146 THE SKETCH BOOK 

heart. The aunts were continually hovering around her, foi 
maiden aunts are apt to take great interest in affairs of this 
nature. They were giving her a world of staid counsel how 
to deport herself, what to say, and in what manner to receive 
the expected lover. 

The baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in 
truth, nothing exactly to do ; but he was naturally a fuming, 
bustling little man, and could not remain passive when all the 
world was in a hurry. He worried from top to bottom of 
the castle with an air of infinite anxiety; he continually called 
the servants from their work to exhort them to be diligent ; 
and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless and' 
importunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer's day. 

In the meantime the fatted calf had been killed ; the forests 
had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen ; the kitchen was 
crowded with good cheer; the cellars had yielded up whole 
oceans of Rhein-ivein and Ferne-ivein ; and even the great 
Heidelburg tun had been laid under contribution. Everything 
was ready to receive the distinguished guest with Saus und 
Braus in the true spirit of G-erman hospitality ; but the guest 
delayed to make his appearance. Hour rolled after hour. The 
sun, that had poured hjp downward rays upon the rich forest 
of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits of the 
mountains. The baron mounted the highest tower and strained 
his eyes in hopes of catching a distant sight of the count and 
his attendants. Once he thought he beheld them ; the sound 
of horns came floating from the valley, prolonged by the moun- 
tain echoes. A number of horsemen were seen far below slowly 
advancing along the road ; but when they had nearly reached 
the foot of the mountain they suddenly struck off in a different 
direction. The last ray of sunshine departed, the bats began to 
flit by in the twilight, the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the 
view, and nothing appeared stirring in it but now and then ' 
peasant lagging homeward from his labor. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM • 147 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of per- 
plexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a different 
part of the Odenwald. 

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his 
route in that sober jog-trot way in which a man travels toward 
matrimony when his friends have taken all the trouble and 
uncertainty of courtship off his hands and a bride is waiting for 
him as certainly as a dinner at the end of his journey. He had 
encountered at Wurtzburg a youthful companion-in-arms with 
whom he had seen some service on the frontiers — Herman Von 
Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and worthiest hearts of 
German chivalry — who was now returning from the army. 
His father's castle was not far distant from the old fortress of 
Landshort, although an hereditary feud rendered the families 
hostile and strangers to each other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition the young 
friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, and the 
count gave the whole history of his intended nuptials with a 
young lady whom he had never seen, but of whose charms he 
had received the most enrapturing descriptions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they 
agreed to perform the rest of their journey together, and that 
they might do it the more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at 
an early hour, the count having given directions for his retinue 
to follow and overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their mili- 
tary scenes and adventures ; but the count was apt to be a little 
tedious now and then about the reputed charms of his bride 
and the felicity that awaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the mountains of the 
Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely and 
thickly wooded passes. It is well known that the forests of 
Germany have always been as much infested by robbers as its 
castles by spectres ; and at this time the former were particularly 



148 THE SKETCH BOOK 

numerous, from the hoards of disbanded soldiers wandering 
about the country. It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, 
that tlie cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, 
in the midst of the forest. They defended themselves with 
bravery, but were nearly overpowered, when the count's retinue 
arrived to their assistance. At sight of them the robbers fled, 
but not until the count had received a mortal wound. He was 
slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, 
and a friar summoned from a neighboring convent who was 
famous for his skill in administering to both soul and body; 
but half of his skill was superfluous ; the moments of the 
unfortunate count were numbered. 

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair 
instantly to the castle of Landshort and explain the fatal cause 
of his not keeping his appointment with his bride. Though not 
the most ardent of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious 
of men, and appeared earnestly solicitous that his mission 
should be speedily and courteously executed. " Unless this is 
done," said he, "I shall not sleep quietly in my grave." He 
repeated these last words with peculiar solemnity. A request at 
a moment so impressive admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust 
endeavored to soothe him to calmness, promised faithfully to 
execute his wish, and gave him his hand in solemn pledge. 
The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed 
into delirium, — raved about his bride, his engagements, his 
plighted word, — ordered his horse, that he might ride to the 
castle of Landshort, and expired in the fancied act of vaulting 
into the saddle. 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear on the 
untimely fate of his comrade, and then pondered on the awkward 
mission he had undertaken. His heart was heavy and his head 
perplexed ; for he was to present himself an unbidden guest 
among hostile people, and to damp their festivity with tidings 
fatal to their hopes. Still, there were certain whisperings of 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 149 

curiosity in his bosom to see this fer-famed beauty of Katzenel- 
lenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the world ; for he was a 
passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of eccen- 
tricity and enterprise in his character that made him fond of all 
singular adventure. 

Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements with 
the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of 
his friend, who was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzbnrg 
near some of his illustrious relatives and the mourning retinue 
of the count took charge of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient 
family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, 
and still more for their dinner, and to the worthy little baron, 
whom we left airing himself on the watch-tower. 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived The baron de^ 
scended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had 
been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be postponed. 
The meats were already ^overdone, the cook in an agony, and 
the whole household had the look of a garrison that had been 
reduced by famine. The baron was obliged reluctantly to give 
orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. All were 
seated at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the 
sound of a horn from without the gate gave notice of the ap- 
proach of a stranger. Another long blast filled the old courts 
of the castle with its echoes, and was answered by the warder 
from the walls. The baron hastened to receive his future son- 
in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was be- 
fore the gate. He was a tall gallant cavalier, mounted on a 
black steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, 
romantic eye and an air of stately melancholy. The baron was 
a little mortified that he should have come in this simple, soli- 
tary style. His dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt 
disposed to consider it a want of proper respect for the impor 



150 THE SKETCH BOOK 

tant occasion and the important family with which he was to be 
connected. He pacified himself, however, with the conclusion 
that it must have been youthful impatience which had induced 
him thus to spur on sooner than his attendants. 

" I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in upon you thus 
unseasonably " 

Here the baron interrupted him with a world of compliments 
and greetings, for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his 
courtesy and eloquence. The stranger attempted once or twice 
to stem the torrent of words, but in vain, so he bowed his head 
and suffered it to flow on. By the time the baron had come to 
a pause they had reached the inner court of the castle, and the 
stranger was again about to speak, when he was once more in- 
terrupted by the appearance of the female part of the family, 
leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on 
her for a moment as one entranced ; it seemed as if his whole 
soul beamed forth in the gaze and rested upon that lovely form. 
One of the maiden aunts whispered something in her ear ; she 
made an eff'ort to speak ; her moist blue eye was timidly raised, 
gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger, and was cast again 
to the ground. The w^ords died away, but there was a sweet 
smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek 
that showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was 
impossible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predis- 
posed for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant 
a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time 
for parley. The baron was peremptory, and deferred all par- 
ticular conversation until the morning, and led the way to the 
untasted banquet. 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the 
walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the 
house of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had 
gained in the field and in the chase. Hacked corselets, 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 151 

splintered jousting-spears, and tattered banners were mingled 
with the spoils of sylvan warfare : the jaws of the wolf and 
the tusks of the boar grinned horribly among crossbows and 
battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched immediately 
over the head of the youthful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the 
entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed 
absorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a low 
tone that could not be overheard^ for the language of love is 
never loud ; but where is the female ear so dull that it cannot 
catch the softest whisper of the lover 1 There was a mingled 
tenderness and gravity in his manner that appeared to have 
a powerful effect upon the young lady. Her color came and 
went as she listened with deep attention. Now and then she 
made some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned away 
she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic countenance, 
and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident 
that the young couple were completely enamored. The aunts^ 
who were deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared 
that they had fallen in love with each other at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests 
were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon 
light purses and mountain-air. The baron told his best and 
longest stories, and never had he told them so well or with 
such great effect. If there was anything marvellous, his 
auditors were lost in astonishment ; and if anything facetious, 
they were sure to laugh exactly in the right place. The baron, 
it is true, like most great men, was too dignified to utter any 
joke but a dull one ; it was always enforced, however, by a 
bumper of excellent Hockheimer, and even a dull joke at one's 
own table, served up with jolly old wine is irresistible. Many 
good things were said by poorer and keener wits that would 
not bear repeating, except on similar occasions; many sly 
speeches whispered in ladies' ears that almost convulsed them 



152 THE SKETCH BOOK 

with suppressed laughter ; and a song or two roared out by a 
poor but merry and broad-faced cousin of the baron that 
absolutely made the maiden aunts hold up their fans. 

Amidst all this revelry the stranger guest maintained a most 
singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed 
a deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced, and, strange 
as it may appear, even the baron's jokes seemed only to render 
him the more melancholy. / At times he was lost in thought, 
and at times there was a perturbed and restless wandering of 
the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations 
with the bride became more and more earnest and mysterious. 
Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her 
brow, and tremors to run through her tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their 
gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bride- 
groom ; their spirits were infected ; whispers and glances were 
interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes of 
the head. The song and the laugh grew less and less frequent : 
there were dreary pauses in the conversation, which were at 
length succeeded by wild tales and supernatural legends. One 
dismal story produced another still more dismal, and the baron 
nearly frightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the 
history of the goblin horseman that carried away the fair 
Leonora — a dreadful story which has since been put into 
excellent verse, and is read and believed by all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. 
He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, and, as the story 
drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his seat, growing 
taller and taller, until in the baron's entranced eye he seemed 
almost to tower, into a giant. The moment the tale was 
finished he heaved a deep sigh and took a solemn farewell of 
the company. They were all amazement. The baron was 
perfectly thunderstruck. 

" What ! going to leave the castle at midnight ? Why, 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 153 

everything was prepared for his reception ; a chamber was 
ready for him if he wished to retire." 

The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously : 
" I must lay my head in a different chamber to-night." 

There was something in this reply and the tone in which it 
was uttered that made the baron's heart misgive him ; but he 
rallied his forces and repeated his hospitable entreaties. 

The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every 
offer, and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly 
out of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petrified ; 
the bride hung her head and a tear stole to her eye. 

The baron followed the stranger to the great court of 
the castle, where the black charger stood pawing the earth 
and snorting with impatience. When they had reached the 
portal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a cres- 
set, the stranger paused, and addressed the baron in a 
hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still 
more sepulchral. 

"Now that we are alone," said he, "I will impart to you 
the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indispensable 
engagement " 

" Why," said the baron, "cannot you send some one in your 
placer' 

" It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in person ; 
I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral " 

"Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until 
to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride there." 

" No ! no ! " replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, 
" my engagement is with no bride — the w^orms ! the worms 
expect me ! I am a dead man — I have been slain by robbers 
— my body lies at Wurtzburg — at midnight I am to be 
buried — the grave is waiting for me — I must keep my 
appointment ! " 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge 



154 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the whistling 
of the night blast. 

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, 
and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright, 
others sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a 
spectre. It was the opinion of some that this might be the 
wild huntsman, famous in German legend. Some talked of 
mountain-sprites, of w^ood-demons, and of other supernatural 
beings with which the good people of Germany have been so 
grievously harassed since time immemorial. One of the poor 
relations ventured to suggest that it might be some sportive 
evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of 
the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage. 
This, however, drew on him the indignation of the whole 
company, and especially of the baron, who looked upon him as 
little better tlian an infidel ; so that he was fain to abjure his 
heresy as speedily as possible and-^ome into the faith of the 
true believers. 

But, whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they 
were completely put to an end by the arrival next day of Tegu- 
lar missives confirming the intelligence of the young count's 
murder and his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron 
shut himself up in his chamber. The guests, who had come 
to rejoice with him, could not think of abandoning him in his 
distress. They wandered about the courts or collected in 
groups in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their 
shoulders at the troubles of so good a man, and sat longer than 
ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by 
way of keeping up their spirits. But the situation of the 
widowed bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a husband 
before she had even embraced him — and such a husband ! If 
the very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what must have 
been the living man 1 She filled the house with lamentations. 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 155 

On the night of the second day of her widowhood she had 
retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who 
insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the 
best tellers of ghost-stories in all Germany, had just been re- 
counting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the very 
midst of it. The chamber was remote and overlooked a small 
garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the 
rising moon as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen tree 
before the lattice. The castle clock had just tolled midnight 
when a soft strain of music stole up from the garden. She 
rose hastily from her bed and stepped lightly to the window. 
A tall figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As it 
raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance. 
Heaven and earth ! she beheld the Spectre Bridegroom ! A 
loud shriek at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, 
who had been awakened by the music and had followed her 
silently to the window, fell into her arms. When she looked 
again the spectre had disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most sooth- 
ing, for she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the 
young lady, there was something even in the spectre of her 
lover that seemed endearing. There was still the semblance of 
manly beauty, and, though the shadow of a man is but little 
calculated to satisfy the affections of a lovesick girl, yet where 
the substance is not to be had even that is consoling. The 
aunt declared she would never sleep in that chamber again ; 
the niece, for once, was refractory, and declared as strongly 
that she would sleep in no other in the castle : the consequence 
was, that she had to sleep in it alone ; but she drew a promise 
from her aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she 
should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left her on earth 
— that of inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian 
shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have observed this prom- 



156 THE SKETCH BOOK \ 

ise IS uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvellous, \ 
and there is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful 
story ; it is, however, still quoted in the neighborhood as a ' 
memorable instance of female secrecy that she kept it to her- 
self for a whole week, when she was suddenly absolved from 
all further restraint by intelligence brought to the breakfast- 
table one morning that the young lady was not to be found. 
Her room was empty — the bed had not been slept in — the 
window was open and the bird had flown ! 

The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence 
was received can only be imagined by those who have witnessed 
the agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause among 
his friends. Even the poor relations paused for a moment 
from the indefatigable labors of the trencher, when the aunt, 
who had at first been struck speechless, wrung her hands and 
shrieked out, " The goblin ! the goblin ! she's carried away 
by the goblin ! " 

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, 
and concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride. 
Two of the domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had 
heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain 
about midnight, and had no doubt that it was the spectre on 
his black charger bearing her away to the tomb. All present 
were struck with the direful probability, for events of the kind 
are extremely common in Germany, as many well-authenticated 
histories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron ! 
What a heartrending dilemma for a fond father and a mem- 
ber of the great family of Katzenellenbogen ! His only daughter 
had either been rapt away to the grave, or he w^as to have some 
wood-demon for a son-in-law, and perchance a troop of goblin 
grandchildren. As usual, he was completely bewildered, and 
all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to take 
horse and scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald 



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 157 

The baron himself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on 
his sword, and was about^ to mount his steed to sally forth on 
the doubtful quest, when he was brought to a pause by a new 
apparition. A lady was seen approaching the castle mounted 
on a palfrey, attended by a cavalier on horseback. She gal- 
loped up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and, falling at the 
baron's feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, 
and her companion — the Spectre Bridegroom ! The baron 
was astounded. He looked at his daughter, then at the spectre, 
and almost doubted the evidence of his senses. The latter, too, 
was wonderfully improved in his appearance since his visit to 
the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and set off a 
noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and 
melancholy. His fine countenance was flushed with the glow 
of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for, in 
truth, as you must have known all the while, he was no goblin) 
announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He re- 
lated his adventure with the young count. He told how he 
had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings, but 
that the eloquence of the baron had interrupted him in every 
attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the bride had com- 
pletely captivated him, and that to pass a few hours near her 
he had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How he had 
been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, 
until the baron's goblin stories had suggested his eccentric exit. 
How, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated 
his visits by stealth — had haunted the garden beneath the 
young lady's window — had wooed — had won — had borne 
away in triumph — and, in a word, had wedded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances the baron would have been 
inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority and 
devoutly obstinate in all family feuds ; but he loved his 
daughter ; he had lamented her as lost ; he rejoiced to find her 



158 THE SKETCH BOOK 

still alive ; and though her husband was of a hostile house, yet, 
thank Heaven ! he was not a goblin. There was something, it 
must be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with liis 
notions of strict veracity in the joke the knight had passed upon 
him of his being a dead man ; but several old friends present, 
who had served in the wars, assured him that every stratagem 
was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to 
especial privilege, having lately served as a trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron par- 
doned the young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle 
were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this new mem- 
ber of the family with loving-kindness ; he was so gallant, so 
generous — and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were somewhat 
scandalized that their system of strict seclusion and passive 
obedience should be so badly exemplified, but attributed it all 
to their negligence in not having the windows grated. One of 
them was particularly mortitied at having her marvellous story 
marred, and that the only spectre she had ever seen should 
turn out a counterfeit ; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at 
having found him substantial flesh and blood. And so the 
story ends. 

WESTMINSTER ABBEY° 

When I behold, with deep astonishment, 
To famous Westminster how tlaere resorte, 
Living in brasse or stoney monument, 
The princes and the worthies of all sorte ; 
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, 
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
And looke upon offenselesse majesty, 
Naked of pomp or earthly domination ? 
And how a play-game of a painted stone 
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
Whome all the world which late they stood upon, 
Could not content nor quench their appetites. 
Life is a frost of cold felicitie. 
And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B., 1598. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 159 

On one of those sober and rather melancholy clays in the 
latter part of autumn when the shadows of morning and even- 
ing almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline 
of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about Westmin- 
ster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in 
the mournful magnificence of the old pile, and as I passed its 
threshold it seemed like stepping back into the regions of 
antiquity and losing myself among the shades of former ages. 

I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, through 
a long, low, vaulted passage that had an almost subterranean 
look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in 
the massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant 
view of the cloisters, with the figure of an old verger in his 
black gown moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming 
like a spectre from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach 
to the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains prepares 
the mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain 
something of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The gray 
walls are discolored by damps and crumbling with age ; a coat 
of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural 
monuments, and obscured the death's heads and other funeral 
emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the 
rich tracery of the arches ; the roses which adorned the key- 
stones have lost their leafy beauty ; everything bears marks of 
the gradual dilapidations of time, which yet has something 
touching and pleasing in its very decay. 

The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the 
square of the cloisters, beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in 
the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with 
a kind of dusky splendor. From between the arcades the eye 
glanced up to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud, and beheld 
the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure 
heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this 



160 THE SKETCH BOOK 

mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavoring to 
decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones which formed the 
pavement beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to three figures 
rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of 
many generations. They were the effigies of three of the early 
abbots ; the epitaphs w^ere entirely effaced : the names alone 
remained, having no doubt been renewed in later times (Vitalis. 
Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and 
Laurentius. Abbas. 1176). I remained some little while, mus- 
ing over these casual relics of antiquity thus left like wrecks 
upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such 
beings had been and had perished, teaching no moral but the 
futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its 
ashes and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even 
these faint records will be obliterated and the monument will 
cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon 
these gravestones I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, 
reverberating from buttress to buttress and echoing among the 
cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of departed 
time sounding among the tombs and telling the lapse of the 
hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. 
I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior of 
the abbey. On entering here the magnitude of the building 
breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the 
cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at clustered columns of 
gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them to such an 
amazing height, and man wandering about their bases, shrunk 
into insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. 
The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a pro- 
found and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, 
as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb, 
while every footfall whispers along the walls and chatters 
among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of the quiet we 
have interrupted. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 161 

It see]ps as if the awful nature of the place presses down 
upon the soul and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. 
We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of 
the great men of past times, who have filled history with their 
deeds and the earth with their renown. 

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human 
ambition to see how they are crowded together and jostled in 
the dust ; what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty 
nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, to those whom, 
when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy, and how many shapes 
and forms and artifices are devised to catch the casual notice of 
the passenger, and save from forgetfulness for a few short years 
a name wdiich once aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought 
and admiration. 

I passed some time in Poet's Corner,® which occupies an end 
of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The monu- 
ments are generally simple, for the lives of literary men aff'ord 
no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare and Addison 
have statues erected to their memories, but the greater part 
have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Not- 
withstanding the simplicity of these memorials, I have always 
observed that the visitors to the abbey remained longest about 
them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold 
curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splen- 
did monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about 
these as about the tombs of friends and companions, for indeed 
there is something of companionship between the author and 
the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through 
the medium of history, which is continually growing faint and 
obscure ; but the intercourse between the author and his fellow- 
men is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived for 
them more than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding en- 
joyments, and shut himself up from the delights of social life, 
that he might the more intimately commune with distant 



162 THE SKETCH BOOK 

minds and distant ages. Well may the world cherish his re- 
nown, for it has been purchased not by deeds of violence and 
blood, but by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may 
posterity be grateful to his memory, for he has left it an inherit- 
ance not of empty names and sounding actions, but whole treas- 
ures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of 
language. 

From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards that part 
of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. I 
wandered among what once were chapels, but which are now 
occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every 
turn I met with some illustrious name or the cognizance of 
some powerful house renowned in history. As the eye darts 
into these dusky chambers of death it catches glimpses of quaint 
effigies — some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion ; others 
stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed together ; 
warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle; prelates, with 
crosiers and mitres; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying 
as it were in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely 
populous, yet where every form is so still and silent, it seems 
almost as if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city 
where every being had been suddenly transmuted into stone. 

I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of 
a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one arm ; 
the hands were pressed together in supplication upon the breast ; 
the face was almost covered by the morion ; the legs were crossed, 
in token of the warrior's having been engaged in the holy war. 
It was the tomb of a crusader, of one of those military enthusi- 
asts who so strangely mingled religion and romance, and vrhose 
exploits form the connecting link between fact and fiction, be- 
tween the history and the fairy-tale. There is something ex- 
tremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, decorated 
as they are with rude armorial bearing and Gothic sculpture. 
They comport with the antiquated chapels in which they are 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 163 

generally found ; and in considering them the imagination is 
apt to kindle with the legendary associations, the romantic 
fiction, the chivalrous pomp and pageantry which poetry has 
spread over the wars for the sepulchre of Christ. They are 
the relics of times utterly gone by, of beings passed from recol- 
lection, of custom* and manners with which ours have no affin- 
ity. They are like objects from some strange and distant land 
of which we have no certain knowledge, and about which all 
our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is something 
extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on Gothic tombs, 
extended as if in the sleep' of death or in the supplication of 
the dying hour. They have an effect infinitely more impres- 
sive on my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the over-wrought 
conceits, the allegorical groups which abound on modern monu- 
ments. I have been struck, also, with the superiority of many 
of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There was a noble way in 
former times of saying things simply, and yet saying them 
proudly ; and I do not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier 
consciousness of family worth and honorable lineage than one 
which affirms of a noble house that "all the brothers were brave 
and all the sisters virtuous." 

In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a monument 
which is among the most renowned achievements of modern art, 
but which to me appears horrible rather than sublime. It is 
the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of 
the monument is represented as throwing open its marble doors, 
and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling 
from his fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. 
She is sinking into her aff'righted husband's arms, who strives 
with vain and frantic eff*ort to avert the blow. The whole is 
executed with terrible truth and spirit ; we almost fancy we 
hear the gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the distended 
jaws of the spectre. But why should we thus seek to clothe 
death with unnecessary terrors, and to spread horrors round the 



164 THE SKETCH BOOK 

tomb of those we love? The grave should be surrounded by 
everything that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the 
dead, or that might win the living to virtue. It is the place 
not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. 

While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, 
studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence 
from without occasionally reaches the ear — the rumbling of 
the passing equipage, the murmur of the multitude, or perhaps 
the light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the 
deathlike repose around ; and it has a strange effect upon the 
feelings thus to hear the surges of active life hurrying along and 
beating against the very walls of the sepulchre. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb and from 
chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away ; the 
distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less 
frequent ; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening 
prayers ; and I saw at a distance the choristers in their white 
surplices crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood 
before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's chapel.° A flight of 
steps leads up to it through a deep and gloomy but magnificent 
arch. Great gates of brass, richly and delicately wrought, 
turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit 
the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepul- 
chres. 

On entering the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture 
and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls 
are wrought into universal ornament encrusted with tracery, 
and scooped into niches crowded with the statues of saints and 
martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to 
have been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft as 
if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful 
minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the 
Knights of the Bath,° richly carved of oak, though with the 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 165 

grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles 
of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, 
with their scarfs and swords, and above them are suspended 
their banners, emblazoned with armorial bearings, and contrast- 
ing the splendor of gold and purple and crimson with the cold 
gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this grand mauso- 
leum stands the sepulchre of its founder — his effigy, with that 
of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb — and the whole 
surrounded by a superbly-wrought brazen railing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence, this strange 
mixture of tombs and trophies, these emblems of living and 
aspiring ambition, close beside mementos which show the 
dust (ind oblivion in which all must sooner or later terminate. 
Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness 
than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former throng 
and pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls of the 
knights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gor- 
geous banners that were once borne before them, my imagina- 
tion conjured up the scene when this hall was bright with the 
valor and beauty of the land, glittering with the splendor of 
jewelled rank and military array, alive with the tread of many 
feet and the hum of an admiring multitude. All had passed 
away ; the silence of death had settled again upon the place, 
interrupted only by the casual chirping of birds, which had 
found their way into the chapel and built their nests among its 
friezes and pendants — sure signs of solitariness and desertion. 

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were 
those of men scattered far and wide about the world — some 
tossing upon distant seas ; some under arms in distant lands ; 
some mingling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets, ■ — 
all seeking to deserve one more distinction in this mansion of 
shadowy honors — the melancholy reward of a monument. 

Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touch- 
ing instance of the equality of the grave, which brings down 



166 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the oppressor to a level with the oppressed and mingles the 
dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulchre 
of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the other is that of her victim, 
the lovely and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in the day but 
some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, 
mingled with indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Eliza- 
beth's sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sympathy 
heaved at the grave of her rival. 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies 
buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened 
by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and 
the walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A 
marble figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which 
is an iron railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem 
— the thistle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down 
to rest myself by the monument, revolving in my mind the 
chequered and disastrous story of poor Mary. 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I J 
could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest ] 
repeating the evening service and the faint responses of the ; 
choir j these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The still- ; 
ness, the desertion, and obscurity that were gradually prevail- I 
ing around gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the , 
place ; 

For in the silent grave no conversation, i 

No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, \ 

No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, j 

For nothing is, but all oblivion, i 

Dust, and an endless darkness. ' 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon i 
the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and roll- * 
ing, as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their I 
volume and grandeur accord with this mighty building ! With ] 
what pomp do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe | 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 167 

their awful harmony through these caves of death, and make 
the silent sepulchre vocal ! And now they rise in triumphant 
acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes 
and piling sound on sound. And now they pause, and the 
soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody ; 
they soar aloft and warble along the roof, and seem to play 
about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again 
the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air 
into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long- 
drawn cadences ! What solemn sweeping concords ! It grows 
more and more dense and powerful ; it fills the vast pile and 
seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the 
senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full 
jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven ; the very soul 
seems rapt away and floated upwards on the swelling tide of 
harmony ! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain 
of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of evening 
were gradually thickening round me ; the monuments began 
to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the distant clock again 
gave token of the slowly waning day. 

I rose and pr-epared to leave the abbey. As I descended the 
flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, my 
eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, ° and I 
ascended the small staircase that conducts to it, to take from 
thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. The 
shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close around it 
are the sepulchres of various kings and queens. From this 
eminence the eye looks down between pillars and funeral 
trophies, to the chapels and chambers below, crowded with 
tombs, where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and statesmen lie 
mouldering in their " beds of darkness." Close by me stood 
the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak in the bar- 
barous taste of a remote and Gothic age. The scene seemed 



168 THE SKETCH BOOK 

almost as if contrived with theatrical artifice to produce an 
effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning 
and the end of human pomp and power ; here it was literally 
but a step from the throne to the sepulchre. Would not one 
think that these incongruous mementos had been gathered to- 
gether as a lesson to living greatness 1 — to show it, even in 
the moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dishonor 
to which it must soon arrive — how soon that crown which 
encircles its brow must pass away, and it must lie down in the 
dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled upon by the 
feet of the meanest of the multitude. For, strange to tell, even 
the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. There is a shocking 
levity in some natures wliich leads them to sport with awful 
and hallowed things, and there are base minds which delight 
to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject homage and 
grovelling servility which they pay to the living. The coffin 
of Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and his re- 
mains despoiled of their funereal ornaments ; the sceptre has 
been stolen from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth ; and the 
effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monu- 
ment but bears some proof how false and fugitive is the hom- 
age of mankind. Some are plundered, some mutilated, some 
covered with ribaldry and insult, — all more or less outraged 
and dishonored. 

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through 
the painted windows in the high vaults above me ; the lower 
parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of 
twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The 
effigies of the kings faded into shadows ; the marble figures of 
the monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light ; 
the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the cold breath 
of the grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, travers- 
ing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in 
its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 169 

I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing 
with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole building with 
echoes. 

I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the 
objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already 
falling into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, 
trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though 
I had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, 
thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury 
of humiliation — a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the 
emptiness of renown and the certainty of oblivion 1 It is, in- 
deed, the empire of death ; his great shadowy palace where he 
sits in state mocking at the relics of human glory and spreading 
dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle 
a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name ! Time is ever 
silently turning over his pages ; we are too much engrossed by 
the story of the present to think of the characters and anecdotes 
that gave interest to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown 
aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the 
hero of yesterday out of our recollection, and will in turn 
be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. " Our fathers," 
says Sir Thomas Browne, ° "find their graves in our short 
memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our sur- 
vivors." History fades into fable ; fact becomes clouded with 
doubt and controversy ; the inscription moulders from the tab- 
let; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, 
pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand, and their epitaphs 
but characters written in the dust ? What is the security of 
a tomb or the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The remains of 
Alexander the Great have been scattered to the wind, and his 
empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum, 
*' The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath spared, 
avarice now consumeth ; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh 
is sold for balsams." ° 



170 THE SKETCH BOOK 

What then is to ensure this pile which now towers abovt 
me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums 1 The time 
must come when its gilded vaults which now spring so loftily, 
shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet ; when instead of the 
sound of melody and praise the wind shall whistle through the 
broken arches and the owl hoot from the shattered tower ;'wheii 
the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of 
death, and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; and the fox- 
glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery 
of the dead. Thus man passes away ; his name perishes from 
record and recollection ; his history is as a tale that is told, and 
his very monument becomes a ruin. 



NOTES CONCERNING WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

Toward the end of the sixth century, when Britain, under the domin- 
ion of the Saxons, was in a state of barbarism and idolatry, Pope Greg- 
ory the Great, struck witli tlie beauty of some Anglo-Saxon youths ex- 
posed for sale in the market-place at Rome, conceived a fancy for the 
race, and determined to send missionaries to preach the gospel among 
these comely but benighted islanders. He was encouraged to this by 
learning that Ethelbert, king of Kent and the most potent of the 
Anglo-Saxon princes, had married Bertha, a Christian princess, only 
daughter of the king of Paris, and that she was allowed by stipulation 
the full exercise of her religion. 

The shrewd pontiff knew the influence of the sex in matters of 
religious faith. He forthwith dispatched Augustine, a Roman monk, 
with forty associates, to the court of Ethelbert at Canterbury, to effect 
the conversion of the king and to obtain through him a foothold in the 
island. 

Ethelbert received them warily, and held a conference in the open 
air, being distrustful of foreign priestcraft and fearful of spells and 
magic. They ultimately succeeded in making him as good a Christian 
as ills wife ; the conversion of the king of course produced the conver- 
sion of his loyal subjects. The zeal and success of Augustine were 
rewarded by his being made archbishop of Canterbury, and being en- 
dowed with authority over all tlie British churches. 

One of the most prominent converts was Segebert or Sebert, king of 
the East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert. He reigned at London, of 
which Mellitus, one of the Roman monks who had come over with 
Augustine, was made bishop. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 171 

Sebert ia 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery by the river- 
side to the west of the city, on the ruins of a temple of Apollo, being, 
in fact, the origin of the present pile of Westminster Abbey. Great 
preparations were made for the consecration of the church, which was 
to be dedicated to St. Peter. On the morning of the appointed day 
Mellitus, the bishop, proceeded with great pomp and solemnity to per- 
form the ceremony. On approaching the edifice he was met by a fish- 
erman, who informed him that it was needless to proceed, as the cere- 
mony was over. The bishop stared with surprise, when the fisherman 
went on to relate that the night before, as he was on his boat on the 
Thames, St. Peter appeared to him, and told him that he intended to 
consecrate the church himself that very night. The apostle accordingly 
went into the church, which suddenly became illuminated. The cere- 
mony was i^erformed in sumptuous style accompanied by strains of 
heavenly music and clouds of fragrant incense. After this the apostle 
came into the boat and ordered the fisherman to cast his net. He did 
so, and had a miraculous draught of fishes, one of which he was com- 
manded to present to the bishop, and to signify to him that the apostle 
had relieved him from the necessity of consecrating the church. 

Mellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required confirmation 
of the tisherman's tale. He opened the church doors and beheld wax 
candles, crosses, holy water, oil sprinkled in various places, and vari- 
ous other traces of a grand ceremonial. If he had still any lingering 
doubts, they were completely removed on the fisherman's producing 
the identical fish which he had been ordered by the apostle to present 
to him. To resist this would have been to resist ocular demonstration. 
The good bishop accordingly was convinced that the church had actu- 
ally been consecrated by St. Peter in person; so he reverently abstained 
from proceeding further in the business. 

The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why King Edward 
the Confessor chose this place as the site of a religious house which he 
meant to endow. He pulled down the old church and built another in 
its place in 10i5. In this his remains were deposited in a magnificent 
shrine. 

The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a recon- 
struction, by Henry III. in 1220, and began to assume its present 
appearance. 

Under Henry VIII. it lost its conventual character, that monarch 
turning the monks away and seizing upon the revenues. 



RELICS OF EDWARD THE CONFESSOR 

A curious narrative was printed in 1688 by one of the choristers of the 
cathedral, who appears to have been the Paul Pry of the sacred edifice, 
giving an account of his rummaging among the bones of Edward the 
Confessor, after they had quietly reposed in their sepulchre upwards of 



172 THE SKETCH BOOK 

six hundred years, and of his drawing forth the crucifix and golden 
chain of the deceased monarch. Daring eighteen years that he had 
ofiiciated in the choir it had been a common tradition, he says, among 
his brother-clioristers and the gray-headed serv^ants of the abbey that 
the body of King Edward was deposited in a Ivind of chest or coffin 
which was indistinctly seen in the upper part of the shrine erected to 
his memory. None of the abbey gossips, however, had ventured upon 
a nearer inspection until the worthy narrator, to gratify his curiosity, 
mounted to the cotfin by the aid of a ladder, and found it to be made of 
wood, apparently very strong and firm, being secured by bands of iron. 

Subsequently, in 1(585, on taking down the scaffolding used in the 
coronation of James II. tlie coffin was found to be broken, a hole 
appearing in the lid, probably made through accident by the workmen. 
No one ventured, however, to meddle with the sacred depository of 
royal dust until, several weeks afterwards, the circumstance came to 
the knowledge of the aforesaid chorister. He forthwith repaired to 
the abbey in company with two friends of congenial tastes, who were 
desirous of inspecting-the tombs. Procuring a ladder, he again mounted 
to the colfin, and found, as had been represented, a hole in the lid about 
six inches long and four inches broad, just in front of the left breast. 
Thrusting in his hand and groping among the bones, he drew from 
underneath the shoulder a crucifix, richly adorned and enamelled, 
affixed to a gold chain twenty-four inches long. These he showed to 
his inquisitive friends, who were equally surprised with himself. 

" At the time," says he, " when I took the cross and chain out of the 
coffin / dreio the head to the hole and viewed it, being very sound and 
firm, with the upper and nether jaws whole and full of teeth, and a list 
of gold above an inch broad, in the nature of a coronet, surrounding 
the" temples. There was also in the coffin white linen and gold-colored 
flowered silk, that looked indifferent fresh ; but the least stress put 
thereto showed it was wellnigh perished. There were all his bones, 
and much dust likewise, which I left as I found." 

It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human pride than 
the skull of Edward the Confessor \hus irreverently pulled about in its 
coffin by a prying chorister, and brought to grin face to face with him 
through a hole in the lid. 

Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix and chain 
back again into the coffin, and sought the dean to apprise him of his 
discovery. The dean not being accessible at the time, and fearing that 
the "holy treasure" might be taken away by other hands, he got a 
brother-chorister to accompany him to the shrine about two or three 
hours afterwards, and in his presence again drew forth the relics. 
These he afterwards delivered on his knees to King James. The king 
subsequently had the old coffin inclosed in a new one of great strength, 
"each plank being two inches thick and cramped together with large 
iron wedges, where it now remains (1688) as a testimony of his pious 
care, that no abuse might be offered to the sacred ashes therein re- 
posited." 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 173 

As the history of this shriue is full of moral, I subjoin a description 
of it in modern times. " The solitary and forlorn shrine," says a Brit- 
ish writer, " now stands a mere skeleton of what it was. A few faint 
traces of its sparkling decorations inlaid on solid mortar catch the rays 

of the sun, forever set on its splendor Only two of the spiral 

pillars remain. The wooden Ionic top is much broken and covered 
with dust. The mosaic is picked away in every part within reach; 
only the lozenges of about a foot square and five circular pieces of the 
rich marble remain." — Malcolm, Lond. rediv. 



INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT ALLUDED TO IN THE 
SKETCH 

Here lyes the the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Dutchess his 
second wife, by whom he had no issue. Her name was Mai-garet Lucas, 
youngest sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester, a noble family ; for all 
the brothers were valiant, and all the sisters virtuous. This Dutchess 
was a wise, witty, and learned lady, which her many Bookes do well 
testify ; she was'a most virtuous and loving and careful wife, and was 
with her lord all the time of his banishment and miseries, and when 
he came home, never parted from him in his solitary retirements. 



In the winter-time, when the days are short, the service in the after- 
noon is performed by the light of tapers. The effect is fine of the choir 
partially lighted up, while the main body of the cathedral and the tran- 
septs are in profound and cavernous darkness. The white dresses of 
the choristers gleam amidst the deep brown of the oaken slats and 
canopies ; the partial illumination makes enormous shadows from 
columns and screens, and, darting into the surrounding gloom, catches 
here and there upon a sepulchral decoration or monumental efiSgy. 
The swelling notes of the organ accord well with the scene. 

When the service is over the dean is lighted to his dwelling, in the 
old conventual part of the pile, by the boys of the choir, in their 
white dresses, bearing tapers, and the procession passes through the 
abbey and along shadowy cloisters, lighting up angles and arches and 
grim sepulchral monuments, and leaving all behind in darkness. 



On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean's 
Yard the eye, ranging through a dark vaulted passage, catches a dis- 
tant view of a white marble figure reclining on a tomb, on which a 
strong glare thrown by a gas-light has quite a spectral effect. It is a 
mural monument of one of the Pultneys. 

The cloisters are well worth visiting by moonlight when the moon 
is in the full. 



174 THE SKETCH BOOK 



CHRISTMAS -i 

\ 

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair of ; 

his good, gray old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, seeing \ 

I cannot have more of him. i 

Hue and Cry after Christmas. \ 

J 

A man might then behold ' 

At Christmas, in each hall ; 

Good fires to curb the cold, * 

And meat for great and small. \ 

The neighbors were friendly bidden, ■] 

And all had welcome true, \ 

The poor from the gates were not chidden , 

When this old cap was new. i 

Old Song. ^ 
I 

Nothing in England exercises a more delightful spell over , 

my imagination than the lingerings of the holiday customs and . 

rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy ■ 

used to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only '\ 

knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that \ 

poets had painted it ; and they bring with them the flavor of \ 

those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I \ 

am apt to think the world was more homebred, social, and joyous j 

than at present. I regret to say that they are daily growing : 

more and more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but \ 

still more obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those \ 

picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture which we see crum- I 

bling in various parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the >. 

waste of ages and partly lost in the additions and alterations of \ 

latter days. Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness • 

about the rural game and holiday revel from which it has derived • 

so many of its themes, as the ivy winds its rich foliage about ' 

the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their ^ 



CHRISTMAS 175 

support by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it 
were, embalming them in verdure. 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens 
the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone 
of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, 
and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoy- 
ment. The services of the Church about this season are ex- 
tremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful 
story of the origin of our faith and the pastoral scenes that 
accompanied its announcement. They gradually increase in 
fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they 
break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace 
and good-will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music 
on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the peal- 
ing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and 
filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, 
that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of 
the religion of peace and love, has been made the season for 
gathering together of family connections, and drawing closer 
again those bands of kindred hearts which the cares and pleasures 
and sorrows of the world are continually operating to cast loose ; 
of calling back the children of a family who have launched forth 
in life and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble 
about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the affections, 
there to grow young and loving again among the endearing 
mementos of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year that gives 
a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we 
derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties 
of Nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves 
over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad and every- 
where." The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the 
breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of sum- 



176 THE SKETCH BOOK 

mer, the golden pomp of autumn, earth with its mantle of ; 
refreshing green, and heaven with its deep delicious blue and : 
its cloudy magnificence, — all fill us with mute but exquisite : 
delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in I 
the depth of winter, when Nature lies despoiled of every charm i 
and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our 
gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation ; 
of the landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, \ 
while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings \ 
also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed ' 
for the pleasure of the social circle. Our thoughts are more j 
concentrated ; our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel ; 
more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought ■■ 
more closely together by dependence on each other for enjoy- '. 
ment. Heart calleth unto heart, and we draw our pleasures j 
from the deep wells of loving-kindness which lie in the quiet \ 
recesses of our bosoms, and which, when resorted to, furnish \ 
forth the pure element of domestic felicity. ] 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering i 
the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire, i 
The ruddy blaze diff'uses an artificial summer and sunshine 
through the room, and lights up each countenance in a kindlier ^ 
welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality expand \ 
into a broader and more cordial smile, where is the shy glance \ 
of love m-ore sweetly eloquent, than by the winter fireside ? and \ 
as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, , 
claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and . 
rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than 
that feeling of sober and sheltered security with which we look \ 
round upon the comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic \ 
hilarity ? < 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit ; 
throughout every class of society, have always been fond of • 
those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the still- '] 



CHRISTMAS 177 

ness of country life, and they were, in former clays, particularly 
observant of the religious and social rites of Christmas. It is 
inspiring to read even the dry details which some antiquaries 
have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the 
complete abandonment to mirth and good-fellowship with which 
this festival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every 
door and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the 
peer togetlier, and blended all ranks in one warm, generous flow 
of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses 
resounded with the harp and tlie Christmas carol, and their 
ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even 
the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green 
decorations of bay and holly — the cheerful fire glanced its rays 
through the lattice, inviting the passengers to raise the latch 
and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth beguiling 
the long evening with legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas 
tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the 
havoc it ^ as made among the hearty old holiday customs. It lias 
completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of 
these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a 
more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic, 
surface. Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas 
have entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old 
Falstaff, are become matters of speculation and dispute among 
commentators. They flourished in times full of spirit and lusti- 
hood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously 
— times wild and picturesque, which have furnished poetry 
with its richest materials and the drama with its most attrac- 
tive variety of characters and manners. The world has become 
more worldly. There is more of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. 
Pleasure has expande^l into a broader, but a shallower stream, 
and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels where 
it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life 



178 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Society has acquired a more enlightened and elegant tone, but 
it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its homebred 
feelings, it honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs 
of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly 
wassailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and 
stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They 
comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and 
the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted to the light showy 
saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa. 

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, 
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. 
It is gratifying to see that home-feeling completely aroused 
which holds so powerful a place in every English bosom. The 
preparations making on every side for the social board that is 
again to unite friends and kindred ; the presents of good cheer 
passing and repassing, those tokens of regard and quickeners of 
kind feelings ; the evergreens distributed about houses and 
churches, emblems of peace and gladness, — all these have the 
most pleasing effect in producing fond associations and kindling 
benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the Waits, rude as 
may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a win- 
ter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been 
awakened by them in that still and solemn hour "when deep 
sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, 
ind, connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have 
almost fancied them into another celestial choir announcing 
peace and good-will to mankind. 

How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by 
these moral influences, turns everything to melody and beauty ! 
The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound 
repose of the country, " telling the night-watches to his feathery 
dames," was thought by the common people to announce the 
approach of this sacred festival. 



CHRISTMAS 179 

" Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
This bird of dawning singeth all night long ; 
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike, 
No fairy takes, no witcii hath power to charm, 
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time." 

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, 
and stir of the affections which prevail at this period what 
bosom can remain insensible ? It is, indeed, the season of re- 
generated feeling — the season for kindling not merely the fire 
of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the 
heart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond 
the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of home, frauglit with 
the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping 
spirit, as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness 
of the distant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land, though for me 
no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its 
doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the 
threshold, yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into 
my soul from the happy looks of those around me. Surely 
happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven, and every 
countenance, bright with smiles and glowing with innocent 
enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a su- 
preme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly 
away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, and 
can sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness when all 
around is joyful, may have his moments of strong excitement 
and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and social 
sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas, 



180 THE SKETCH BOOK 



THE STAGE-COACH 

Oraue bene 

Sine poena 
Tempua est ludendi. 

Venit hora 

Absque mora 
Libros deponeudi. 

Old Holiday School-Song. 

In the preceding paper I have made some general observa- 
tions on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted 
to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in 
the country ; in perusing which I would most courteously in- 
vite my reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put 
on that genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly and 
anxious only for amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a 
long distance in one of the public coaches on the day preceding 
Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with 
passengers who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the 
mansions of relations or friends to eat the Christmas dinner. 
It was loaded also with hampers of game and baskets and 
boxes of delicacies, and hares hung dangling their long ears 
about the coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the 
impending feast, I had three fine rosy-cheeked schoolboys 
for my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health and 
manly spirit which I have observed in the children of this 
country. They were returning home for the holidays in high 
glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoyment. It was 
delightful to hear the gigantic plans of the little rogues, and 
the impracticable feats they were to perform during their six 
weeks' emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, 
and pedagogue. They were full of anticipations of the meeting 



THE STAGE-COACH 181 

with the family and household, down to the very cat and dog, 
and of the joy they w^ere to give their little sisters by the 
presents with which their pockets were crammed ; but the 
meeting to which they seemed to look forward with the great- 
est impatience was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, 
and, according to tlieir talk, possessed of more virtues than any 
steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he could trot ! how 
he could run ! and then such leaps as he would take ! — there 
was not a hedge in the whole country that he could not clear. 
They were under the particular guardianship of the coach- 
man, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they ad- 
dressed a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the 
best fellows in the world. Indeed, I could not but notice the 
more than ordinary air of bustle and importance of the coach- 
man, who wore his hat a little on one side and had a large 
bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the buttonhole of his coat. 
He is always a personage full of mighty care and business, but 
he is particularly so during this season, having so many com- 
missions to execute in consequence of the great interchange of 
presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable 
to my untravelled readers to have a sketch that may serve 
as a general representation of this very numerous and im- 
portant class of functionaries, who have a dress, a manner, a 
language, an air peculiar to themselves and prevalent through- 
out the fraternity; so that wherever an English stage-coachman 
may be seen he cannot be mistaken for one of any other craft 
; or mystery. 

I He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled with 

' red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every 

\ vessel of the skin ; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by fre- 

j quent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further 

increased by a multiplicity of coats, in wdiich he is buried like 

a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a 

broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat ; a huge roll of colored hand- 



182 THE SKETCH BOOK 

kerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at 
the bosom ; and has in summer-time a large bouquet of flowers 
in his buttonhole, the present, most probably, of some enamored 
country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright color, 
striped, and his small-clothes extend far below the knees, to meet 
a pair of jockey boots which reach about halfway up his legs. 

All this costume is maintained with much precision ; he has 
a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials, and, not- 
withstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is 
still discernible that neatness and propriety of person which is 
almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great conse- 
quence aud consideration along the road ; has frequent confer- 
ences with the village housewives, who look upon him as a 
man of great trust and dependence ; and he seems to have a 
good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The 
moment he arrives where the horses are to be changed, he 
throws down the reins with something of an air and abandons 
the cattle to the care of the ostler, his duty being merely to 
drive from one stage to another. When off the box his hands 
are thrust into the pockets of his great coat, and he rolls about 
the inn-yard with an air of the most absolute lordliness. Here 
he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of ostlers, 
stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those nameless hangers-on that infest 
inns and taverns, and run errands and do all kind of odd jobs 
for the privilege of battening on the drippings of the kitchen 
and the leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to him as 
to an oracle, treasure up his cant phrases, echo his opinions 
about horses and other topics of jockey lore, and, above all, 
endeavor to imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuffin that 
has a coat to his back thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls iu 
his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey. 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that 
reigned in my own mind that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in 
every countenance throughout the journey. A stage-coach, 



THE STAGE-COACH 183 

however, carries animation always with it, and puts the world 
in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the entrance 
of the village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten forth 
to meet friends ; some with bundles and bandboxes to secure 
places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of 
the group that accompanies them. In the meantime the coach- 
man has a world of small commissions to execute. Sometimes he 
delivers a hare or pheasant ; sometimes jerks a small parcel or 
newspaper to the door of a public house ; and sometimes, with 
knowing leer and words of sly import, hands to some half- 
blushing, half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux 
from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the 
village every one runs to the window, and you have glances on 
every side of fresh country faces and blooming giggling girls. 
At the corners are assembled juntos of village idlers and wise 
men, who take their stations there for the important purpose of 
seeing company pass ; but the sagest knot is generally at the 
blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the coach is an event 
fruitful of much speculation. The smith, with the horse's 
heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by; the cyclops 
round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers and suffer the 
iron to grow cool ; and the sooty spectre in brown paper cap 
laboring at the bellows leans on the handle for a moment, and 
permits the asthmatic engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while 
he glares through the murky smoke and sulphurous gleams of 
the smithy. 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than 
usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if every- 
body was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and 
other luxuries of the table were in brisk circulation in the 
villages ; the grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' shops were 
thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly 
about, putting their dwellings in order, and the glossy branches 
of holly with their bright-red berries began to appear at the 



184 THE SKETCH BOOK 

windows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's account 
of Christmas preparation : " Now capons and hens, besides 
turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton, must all die, 
for in twelve days a multitude of people will not be fed with a 
little. Now phims and spice, sugar and honey, square it 
among pies and broth. Now or never must music be in tune, 
for the youth must" dance and sing to get them a heat, while 
the aged sit by the fire. The country maid leaves half her 
market, and must be sent again if she forgets a pack of cards 
on Christmas Eve. Great is the contention of holly and ivy 
whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards 
benefit the butler; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will 
sweetly lick his fingers." 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a shout 
from my little travelling companions. They had been looking 
out of the coach-windows for the last few miles recognizing 
every tree and cottage as they approached home, and now there 
was a general burst of joy. " There's John ! and there's old 
Carlo ! and there's Bantam ! " cried the happy little rogues, 
clapping their hands. 

At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking servant 
in livery waiting for them ; he was accompanied by a superan- 
nuated pointer and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat 
of a pony with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood 
dozing quietly by the roadside, little dreaming of the bustling 
times that awaited him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows 
leaped about the steady old footman and hugged the pointer, 
who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the 
great object of interest ; all wanted to mount at once, and it 
was with some difficulty that John arranged that they should 
ride by turns and the eldest should ride first. 

Off they set at last, one on the pony, with the dog bounding 
and barking before him, and the others holding John's hands, 



THE STAGE-COACH 185 

both talking at once and overpowering him with questions 
about home and with school anecdotes. I looked after them 
with a feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure or 
melancholy predominated ; for I was reminded of those days 
when, like them, I had known neither care nor sorrow and a 
holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few 
moments afterwards to water the horses, and on resuming our 
route a turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat country- 
seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two 
young girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with 
Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage- 
road. I leaned out of the coach-window, in hopes of wit- 
nessing the happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from 
my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had determined 
to pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the 
inn, I saw on one side the light of a rousing kitchen-fire beam- 
ing through a window. I entered, and admired, for the hun- 
dredth time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and broad 
honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was of 
spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels 
highly polished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas 
green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended 
from the ceiling ; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside 
the fireplace, and a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured 
deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, with a cold 
round of beef and other hearty viands upon it, over which two 
foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travellers 
of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast, 
while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two 
high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim housemaids 
were hurrying backwards and forwards under the directions of 
a fresh bustling landlady, but still seizing an occasional moment 
to exchange a flippant word and have a rallying laugh with the 



186 THE SKETCH BOOK 

group round the fire. The scene completely realized Pool 
Robin's humble idea of the comforts of mid-winter: — 

Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence AVinter's silver hair; 
A handsome hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale now and a toast, 
Tobacco and a good coal fire, 
Are things this season doth require.*' 

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove up 
to the door. A young gentleman stept out, and by the light of 
the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought 
I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye 
caught mine. I was not mistaken ; it was Frank Bracebridge, 
a sprightly, good-humored young fellow with whom I had once 
travelled on the Continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, 
for the countenance of an old fellow-traveller always brings up 
the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, 
and excellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient inter- 
view at an inn was impossible ; and, finding that I was not 
pressed for time and was merely making a tour of observation, 
he insisted that I should give him a day or two at his father's 
country-seat, to which he was going to pass the holidays and 
which lay at a few miles' distance. "It is better than eating a 
solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, "and I can 
assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the old-fashioned 
style." His reasoning was cogent, and I must confess the 
preparation I had seen for universal festivity and social enjoy- 
ment had made me feel a little impatient of ray loneliness. I 
closed, therefore, at once with his invitation ; the chaise drove 
up to the door, and in a few moments I was on my way to the 
family mansion of the Bracebridges. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 187 



CHRISTMAS EVE 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight ; 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Robin ; 
Keep it from all evil spirits, 
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets : 

From curfew time 

To the next prime. 

Cartwright. 

It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold ; our 
chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground; the postboy 
smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses 
were on a gallop. " He knows where he is going," said my 
companion, laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time for some 
of the merriment and good cheer of the servants' hall. My 
father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the old school, 
and " prides himself upon keeping up something of old English 
hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what you will rarely 
meet with nowadays in its purity, the old English country 
gentleman; for our men of fortune spend so much of their 
time in town, and fashion is carried so much into the country, 
that the strong rich peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost 
polished away. My father, liowever, from early years, took 
honest Peacham° for his text-book, instead of Chesterfield ; he 
determined in his own mind that there was no condition more 
truly honorable and enviable than that of a country gentleman 
on his paternal lands, and therefore passes the whole of his 
time on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the revival 
of the old rural games and holiday observances, and is deeply 
read in the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated on 



188 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the subject. Indeed, his favorite range of reading is among the 
authors who flourished at least two centuries since, who, he 
insists, wrote and thought more like true Englishmen than any 
of their successors. He even regrets sometimes that he had 
not been born a few centuries earlier, when England was itself 
and had its peculiar manners and customs. As he lives at 
some distance from the main road, in rather a lonely part of 
the country, without any rival gentry near him, he has that 
most enviable of all blessings to an Englishman — an opportu- 
nity of indulging the bent of his own humor without molestation. 
Being representative of the oldest family in the neighborhood, 
and a great part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is much 
looked up to, and in general is known simply by the appel- 
lation of ' The Squire ' — a title which has been accorded 
to the head of the family since time immemorial. I think 
it best to give you these hints about my worthy old father, to 
prepare you for any eccentricities that might otherwise appear 
absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and 
at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy, 
magnificent old style, of iron bars fancifully wrought at top 
into flourishes and flowers. The huge square columns that 
supported the gate were surmounted by the family crest. Close 
adjoining was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir trees 
and almost buried in shrubbery. 

The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded 
through the still, frosty air, and was answered by the distant 
barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. 
An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. As the moon- 
light fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of a little primitive 
dame, dressed very much in the antique taste, with a neat ker- 
chief and stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from under a 
cap of snowy whiteness. She came curtseying forth, with many 
expressions of simple joy at seeing her young master. Her 



CHRISTMAS EVE 189 

husband, it seemed, was up at the house keeping Christmas Eve 
in the servants' hall ; they could not do without him, as he was 
the best hand at a song and story in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and walk through 
the park to the hall, which was at no great distance, while the 
chaise should follow on. Our road wound through a noble 
avenue of trees, among the naked branches of which the moon 
glittered as she rolled through the deep vault of a cloudless sky. 
The lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight covering of snow, 
which here and .there sparkled as the moonbeams caught a 
frosty crystal, and at a distance might be seen a thin transparent 
vapor stealing up from the low grounds and threatening gradually 
to shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked around him with transport. " How 
often," said he, "liave I scampered up this avenue on returning 
home on school vacations ! How often have I played under 
these trees when a boy ! I feel a degree of filial reverence for 
them, as we look up to those who have cherished us in childhood. 
My fother was always scrupulous in exacting our holidays and 
having us around him on family festivals. He used to direct 
and superintend our games with the strictness that some parents 
do the studies of their children. He was very particular that 
we should play the old English games according to their original 
form, and consulted old books for precedent and authority for 
every 'merrie disport;' yet I assure you there never was pedan- 
try so delightful. It was the policy of the good old gentleman 
to make his children feel that home was the happiest place in 
the world ; and I value this delicious home-feeling as one of the 
choicest gifts a parent could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of all 
sorts and sizes, "mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and curs 
of low degree," that, disturbed by the ring of the porter's bell 
and the rattling of the chaise, came bounding, open-mouthed, 
across the lawn 



190 THE SKETCH BOOK 

■ The little dogs and all, 



Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me 1 ' " 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice the 
bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he 
was surrounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of the 
faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, 
partly thrown in deep shadow and partly lit up by the cold 
moonshine. It was an irregular building of some magnitude, 
and seemed to be of the architecture of difFerejit periods. One 
wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow 
windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from among the 
foliage of which the small diamond-shaped panes of glass glit- 
tered with the moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the 
French taste of Charles the Second's time, having been repaired 
and altered, as my friend told me, by one of his ancestors who 
returned with that monarch at the Restoration. The grounds 
about the house were laid out in the old formal manner of arti- 
ficial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, and heavy 
stone balustrades, ornamented with urns, a leaden statue or 
two, and a jet of water. The old gentleman, I was told, was 
extremely careful to preserve this obsolete finery in all its orig- 
inal state. He admired this fashion in gardening ; it had an 
air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befitting good 
old family style. The boasted imitation of Nature in modern 
gardening had sprung up with modern republican notions, but 
did not suit a monarchical government ; it smacked of the level- 
ling system. I could not help smiling at this introduction of 
politics into gardening, though I expressed some apprehension 
that I should find the old gentleman rather intolerant in his 
creed. Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the 
only instance in which he had ever heard his father meddle with 
politics ; and he believed that he had got this notion from a 
member of Parliament who once passed a few weeks with him. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 191 

The squire was glad of any argument to defend his clipped yew 
trees and formal terraces, which had been occasionally attacked 
by modern landscape gardeners. 

As we approached the house we heard the sound of music, 
and now and then a burst of laughter from one end of the build- 
ing. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from the servants' 
hall, where a great deal of revelry was permitted, and even 
encouraged, by the squire throughout the twelve days of Christ- 
mas, provided everything was done conformably to ancient usage. 
Here were kept up the old games of hoodman blind, shoe the 
wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob apple, and snap 
dragon ; the Yule clog and Christmas candle were regularly 
burnt, and the mistletoe with its white berries hung up, to the 
imminent peril of all the pretty housemaids. ° 

So intent were the servants upon their sports that we had 
to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On 
our arrival being announced the squire came out to receive us, 
accompanied by his two other sons — one a young officer in the 
army, home on a leave of absence ; the other an Oxonian, just 
from the university. The squire was a fine healthy-looking 
old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round an open 
tiorid countenance, in wliich the physiognomist, with the ad- 
vantage, like myself, of a previ lus hint or two, might discover 
a singular mixture of whim and benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate ; as the even- 
ing was far advanced, the squire would not permit us to change 
our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, 
which was assembled in a large old-fashioned hall. It was 
composed of different branches of a numerous family connection, 
where there were the usual proportion of old uncles and aunts, 
comfortable married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming 
country cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed board- 
ing-school hoydens. They were variously occupied — some at 
a round game of cards ; others conversing around the fireplace ; 



192 THE SKETCH BOOK 

at one end of the hall was a group of the young folks, some 
nearly grown up, others of a more tender and budding age, fully 
engrossed by a merry game ; and a profusion of wooden horses, 
penny trumpets, and tattered dolls about the floor showed traces 
of a 'troop of little fairy beings who, having frolicked through 
a happy clay, had been carried off to slumber through a peace- 
ful night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on between young 
Bracebridge and his relatives I had time to scan the apart- 
ment. I have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in 
old times, and the squire had evidently endeavored to restore 
it to something of its primitive state. Over the heavy project- 
ing fireplace was suspended a picture of a warrior in armor, 
standing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall hung a 
helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an enormous pair of 
antlers were inserted in the wall, the branches serving as hooks 
on which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs, and in the corners 
of the apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other 
sporting implements. The furniture was of the cumbrous work- 
manship of former days, though some articles of modern con- 
venience had been added and the oaken floor had been carpeted, 
so that the whole presented an odd mixture of parlor and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming 
fireplace to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which 
was an enormous log glowing and blazing, and sending forth 
a vast volume of light and heat : this, I understood, was the 
Yule clog,° which the squire was particular in having brought 
in and illumined on a Christmas Eve, according to ancient 
custom. ° 

• It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in his 
hereditary elbow-chair by the hospitable fireside of his ancestors, 
and looking around him Hke the sun of a system, beaming 
warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the very dog that 
lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted his position and 



CHRISTMAS EVE 193 

yawned would look fondly up in his master's face, wag his tail 
against the floor, and stretch himself again to sleep, confi- 
dent of kindness and protection. There is an emanation from 
the heart in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but 
is immediately felt and puts the stranger at once at his ease. 
I had not been seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth 
of the worthy old cavalier before I found myself as much at 
home as if I had been one of the family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was 
served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which 
shone with wax, and around which were several family portraits 
decorated with holly and ivy. Besides the accustomed lights, 
two great wax tapers, called Christmas candles, wreathed with 
greens, were placed on a highly polished beaufet among the 
family plate. The table was abundantly spread with substan- 
tial fare ; but the squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish 
made of wheat cakes boiled in milk with rich spices, being 
a standing dish in old times for Christmas Eve. I was happy 
to find my old friend, minced pie, in the retinue of the feast ; 
and, finding him to be perfectly orthodox, and that I need not 
be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with all the 
warmth wherewith we usually greet an old and very genteel 
acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the 
humors of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge always 
addressed with the quaint appellation of Master Simon. He 
was a tight brisk little man, with the air of an arrant old 
bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill of a parrot ; his 
face slightly pitted with the small-pox, with a dry perpetual 
bloom on it, like a frostbitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye 
of great quickness and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking 
waggery of expression that was irresistible. He was evidently 
the wit of the family, dealing very much in sly jokes and 
innuendoes with the ladies, and making infinite merriment by 



194 THE SKETCH BOOK 

harping upon old themes, which, unfortunately, my ignorance 
of the family chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It seemed 
to be his great delight during supper to keep a young girl next 
to him in a continual agony of stifled laughter, in spite of her 
awe of the reproving looks of her mother, who sat opposite. 
Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part of the company, 
who laughed at everything he said or did and at every turn 
of his countenance. I could not wonder at it; for he must 
have been a miracle of accomplishments in their eyes. He 
could imitate Punch and Judy ; make an old woman of his hand, 
with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket-handkerchief ; 
and cut an orange into such a ludicrous caricature that the 
young folks were ready to die with laughing. 

I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. He 
was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, which by 
careful management was sufficient for all his wants. He re- 
volved through the family system like a vagrant comet in its 
orbit, sometimes visiting one branch, and sometimes another 
quite remote, as is often the case with gentlemen of extensive 
connections and small fortunes in England. He had a chirp- 
ing, buoyant disposition, always enjoying the present moment ; 
and his frequent change of scene and company prevented his 
acquiring those rusty, unaccommodating habits with which old 
bachelors are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete 
family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and 
intermarriages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which made 
him a great favorite with the old folks ; he was a beau of all 
the elder ladies and superannuated spinsters, among whom he 
was habitually considered rather a young fellow ; and he was 
master of the revels among the children, so that there was not a 
more popular being in the sphere in which he moved than Mr. 
Simon Bracebridge. Of late years he had resided almost 
entirely with the squire, to whom he had become a factotum, 
and whom he particularly delighted by jumping with his humor 



CHRISTMAS EVE 195 

in respect to old times and by liaving a scrajo of an old song to 
suit every occasion. We had presently a specimen of his last- 
mentioned talent, for no sooner was supper removed and spiced 
wines and other beverages peculiar to the season introduced, 
than Master Simon was called on for a good old Christmas 
song. He bethought himself for a moment, and then, with a 
sparkle of the eye and a voice that was by no means bad, 
excepting that it ran occasionally into a falsetto like the notes 
of a split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old ditty : — 

Now Christinas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbors together, 

And when they appear, 

Let us make them such cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old 
harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had 
been strumming all the evening, and to all appearance comfort- 
ing himself with some of the squire's home-brewed. He was a 
kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, and, though 
ostensibly a resident of the village, was oftener to be found in 
the squire's kitchen than his own home, the old gentleman 
being fond of the sound of " harp in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one : 
some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire himself 
figured down several couple with a partner with whom he affirmed 
he had danced at every Christmas for nearly half a century. 
Master Simon, who seemed to be a kind of connecting link 
between the old times and the new, and to be withal a little 
antiquated in th« taste of his accomplishments, evidently piqued 
himself on his dancing, and was endeavoring to gain credit by 
the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient 
school ; but he had unluckily assorted himself with a little 



196 THE SKETCH BOOK 

romping girl from boarding-school, who by her wild vivacity 
kept him continually on the stretch and defeated all his sober 

attempts at elegance : such are the ill-sorted matches to which \ 

antique gentlemen are unfortunately prone. ' 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his \ 

maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little ' 

knaveries with impunity : he was full of practical jokes, and ' 

his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins, yet, like all mad- ■• 

cap youngsters, he was a universal favorite among the women, j 

The most interesting couple in the dance was the young officer \ 

and a ward of the squire's, a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen, j 

From several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of : 

the evening I suspected there was a little kindness growing up ' 

between them ; and indeed the young soldier was just the hero to ■ 

captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and handsome, , 

and, like most young British officers of late years, had picked ; 

up various small accomplishments on the Continent : he could \ 

talk French and Italian, draw landscapes, sing very tolerably, : 

dance divinely ; but, above all, he had been wounded at Water- ; 

loo. What girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, ■ 

could resist such a mirror of chivalry and perfection 1 j 

The moment the dance was over he caught up a guitar, i 
and, lolling against the old marble fireplace in an attitude which 

I am half inclined to suspect was studied, began the little French ; 
air of the Troubadour. The squire, however, exclaimed against 

having anything on Christmas Eve but good old English ; upon : 

which the young minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment as \ 

if in an effort of memory, struck into another strain, and with i| 

a charming air of gallantry gave Herrick's "Night-Piece to i 
Julia " : — 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, ' J 

The shooting stars attend thee, ''-. 

And the elves also, * 

Whose little eyes glow •* 

Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. \ 



CHRISTMAS EVE 197 

No Will o' the Wisp mislight thee ; 
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee; 

But on thy way, 

Not makinoj a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

Then let not the dark thee cumber ; 
What though the moon does slumber, 

The stars of the night 

Will lend thee their light, 
Like tapers clear without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me. 
And when I shall meet 
Thy silvery feet, 
* My soul I'll pour into thee. 

t 

The song might or might not have been intended in compli- 
ment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called ; 
she, however, was certainly unconscious of any such application, 
for she never looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon 
the floor. Her face was suff'used, it is true, with a beautiful 
blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom, but all that 
was doubtless caused by the exercise of the "dance ; indeed, so 
great was her indifference that she amused herself with plucking 
to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house flowers, and by the time 
the song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night with the kind-hearted 
old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall on 
my way to my chamber, the dying embers of the Yule clog still 
sent forth a dusky glow, and had it not been the season when 
" no spirit dares stir abroad," I should have been half tempted 
to steal from my room at midnight and peep whether the fairies 
might not be at their revels about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponder- 
ous furniture of which might have been fabricated in the days 
of the giants. The room was panelled, with cornices of heavy 



198 THE SKETCH BOOK 

carved work, in which flowers and grotesque faces were strangely 
intermingled, and a row of black-looking portraits stared mourn- ' 
fully at me from the walls. The bed was of rich though faded | 
damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow 
window. I had scaicciy got into bed when a strain of music ; 
seemed to break forth in the air just below the window. I =1 
listened, and found it proceeded from a band which I concluded \ 
to be the Waits from some neighboring village. They went ' 
round the house, playing under the windows. I drew aside the ,! 
curtains to hear them more distinctly. The moonbeams fell . 
through the upper part of the casement ; partially lighting up ■ 
the antiquated apartment. The sounds, as they receded, be- 
came more soft and aerial, and seemed to accord with the quiet [ 
and moonlight. I listened and listened — they became more ■ 
and more tender and remote, and, as they gradually died away, \ 
my head sunk upon the pillow and I fell asleep. ' 



CHRISTMAS DAY ; 

Dark and dull night, flie' hence away, • 

And give the honor to this day '^ 

That sees December turn'd to May. ^ 

* * * * .; 

Why does the chilling winter's morne ' 

Smile like a field beset with corn ? '; 

Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 5 

Thus on the sudden : — Come and see \ 

The cause why things thus fragrant be. ' 

Herrick. 

When I woke the next morning it seemed as if all the 
events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and nothing 
but the identity of the ancient chamber convinced me of their 
reality. While I lay musing on my pillow I heard the sound 
of little feet pattering outside of the door, and a whispering 



CHRISTMAS DAY 199 

consultation. Presently a choir of small voices chanted forth 
an old Christmas carol, the burden of which was — 

Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
On Christmas Day in the morning. 

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door suddenly, 
and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a 
painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, 
the eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They were 
going the rounds of the house and singing at every chamber 
door, but my sudden appearance frightened them into mute 
bashfulness. They remained for a moment playing on their 
lips with their fingers, and now and then stealing a shy glance 
from under their eyebrows, until, as if by one impulse, they 
scampered away, and as they turned an angle of the gallery I 
heard them laughing in triumph at their escape. 

Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings in 
this stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window of 
my chamber looked out upon what in summer would have been 
a beautiful landscape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine stream 
winding at the foot of it, and a tract of park beyond, with 
noble clumps of trees and herds of deer. At a distance was a 
neat hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys hang- 
ing over it, and a church with its dark spire in strong relief 
against the clear cold sky. The house was surrounded with 
evergreens, according to the English custom, which Avould have 
given almost an appearance of summer ; but the morning was 
extremely frosty ; the light vapor of the preceding evening 
had been precipitated by the cold, and covered all the trees and 
every blade of grass with its fine crystallizations. The rays of 
a bright morning sun had a dazzling effect among the glittering 
foliage. A robin, perched upon the top of a mountain-ash that 
hung its clusters of red berries just before my window, was 
basking himself in the sunshine and piping a few querulous 



200 THE SKETCH BOOK 

notes, and a peacock was displaying all the glories of his train 
and strutting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee 
on the terrace walk below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself when a servant appeared to ' 
invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a 
small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I found the j 
principal part of the family already assembled in a kind of j 
gallery furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer- 
books ; the servants were seated on benches below. The old 
gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, and 
Master Simon acted as clerk and made the responses ; and I ' 
must do him the justice to say that he acquitted himself with 
great gravity and decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. \ 
Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his favorite 
author, Herrick, and it had been adapted to an old church mel- 
ody by Master Simon. As there were several good voices 
among the household, the effect was extremely pleasing, but I 
was particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart and sudden 
sally of grateful feeling with which the worthy squire delivered 
one stanza, his eye glistening and his voice rambling out of all 
the bounds of time and tune : — 






** 'Tis Thou that crown 'st my glittering hearth 1 

With guiltlesse mirtli, 
And givest me Wassaile bowles to drink 

Spiced to the brink; 
Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land : 
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, ? 

Twice ten for one." * 

I afterwards understood that early morning service was read I 
on every Sunday and saint's day throughout the year, either ' 
by Mr. Bracebridge or by some member of the family. It was 
once almost universally the case at the seats of the nobility and 
gentry of England, and it is much to be regretted that the 



CHRISTMAS DAY 201 

custom is falling into neglect ; for the dullest observer must be 
sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in those households 
where the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in 
the morning gives, as it were, the keynote to every temper for 
the day and attunes every spirit to harmony. 

Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denominated true 
old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations 
over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured as 
among the causes of modern effeminacy and weak nerves and 
the decline of old English heartiness ; and, though he admitted 
them to his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there 
was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale on the side- 
board. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank 
Bracebridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, as he was called 
by everybody but the squire. We were escorted by a number 
of gentlemanlike dogs, that seemed loungers about the establish- 
ment, from the frisking spaniel to the steady old stag-hound, 
the last of which was of a race that had been in the family 
time out of mind ; they were all obedient to a dog-whistle 
which hung to Master Simon's buttonhole, and in the midst of 
their gambols would glance an eye occasionally upon a small 
switch he carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow 
sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could not but feel the 
force of the squire's idea that the formal terraces, heavily 
moulded balustrades, and clipped yew trees carried with them 
an air of proud aristocracy. There appeared to be an unusual 
number of peacocks about the place, and I was making some 
remarks upon what I termed a flock of them that were basking 
under a sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my phrase- 
ology by Master Simon, who told me that according to the 
most ancient and approved treatise on hunting I must say a 
muster of peacocks. " In the same way," added he, with a 



202 THE SKETCH BOOR 

slight air of pedantry, " we say a flight of doves or swallows, a 
bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of 
foxes, or a building of rooks." He went on to inform me that, 
according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, w^e ought to ascribe to 
this bird " both understanding and glory ; for, being praised, 
he will presently set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the ; 
intent you may the better behold the beauty thereof. But at 
the fall of the leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and; 
hide himself in corners till his tail come again as it was." 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition 
on so whimsical a subject; but I found that the peacocks were 
birds of some consequence at the hall, for Frank Bracebridge 
informed me that they were great favorites with his father, who 
was extremely careful to keep up the breed ; partly because 
they belonged to chivalry, and were in great request at the 
stately banquets of the olden time, and partly because they had 
a pomp and magnificence about them highly becoming an old 
family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to say, had an 
air of greater state and dignity than a peacock perched upon 
an antique stone balustrade. . 

Master Simon had now to hurry off*, having an appointment \ 
at the parish church with the village choristers, who were to 
perform some music of his selection. There was something ex- 
tremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of animal spirits of the , 
little man ; and I confess I had been somewhat surprised at his ^ 
apt quotations from authors who certainly were not in the range 5 
of every-day reading. I mentioned this last circumstance to i 
Frank Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that Master Simon's { 
whole stock of erudition was confined to some half a dozen old ] 
authors, which the squire had put into his hands, and which he ^ 
read over and over whenever he had a studious fit, as he some- ] 
times had on a rainy day or a long winter evening. Sir Anthony | 
Fitzherbert's Booh of Husbandry^ Markham's Country Con- ■■ 
tentments, the Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, , 



CHRISTMAS DAY 203 

Knight, Isaac Walton's Angler, and two or three more such 
ancient worthies of the pen were his standard authorities ; and, 
like all men who know but a few books, he looked up to them 
with a kind of idolatry and quoted them on all occasions. As 
to his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in the 
squire's library, and adapted to tunes that were popular among 
the choice spirits of the last century. His practical application 
of scraps of literature, however, had caused him to be looked 
upon as a prodigy of book-knowledge by all the grooms, hunts- 
men, and small sportsmen of the neighborhood. 

While we were talking we heard the distant toll of the vil- 
lage bell, and I was told that the squire was a little particular 
in having his household at church on a Christmas morning, con- 
sidering it a day of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing ; for, as 
old Tusser observed, 

" At Christmas be merry, and thankful loithal, 
And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small." 

" If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Brace- 
bridge, " I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's 
musical achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, 
he has formed a band from the village amateurs, and established 
a musical club for their improvement ; he has also sorted a 
choir, as he sorted my ftither's pack of hounds, according to the 
directions of Jervaise Markham in his Country Contentments : 
for the bass he has sought out all the 'deep, solemn mouths,' 
and for the tenor the 'loud-ringing mouths,' among the country 
bumpkins, and for 'sweet-mouths,' he has culled with curious 
taste among the prettiest lasses in the neighborhood ; though 
these last, he affirms, are the most difficult to keep in tune, 
your pretty female singer being exceedingly wayward and capri- 
cious, and very liable to accident." 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and clear, 
the most of the family walked to the church, which was a very 



204 THE SKETCH BOOK 

old building of gray stone, and stood near a village about half 
a mile from the park gate. Adjoining it was a low snug par- 
sonage which seemed coeval with the church. The front of it 
was perfectly matted with a yew tree that had been trained 
against its walls, through the dense foliagt^ of whicli apertures 
had been formed to admit light into the small antique lattices. 
As we passed this sheltered nest the parson issued forth and 
preceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek well -conditioned pastor, such as 
is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron's 
table, but I was disappointed. The parson was a little, meagre, 
black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that was too wide and 
stood off from each ear ; so that his head seemed to have shrunk 
away within it, like a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty ' 
coat, with great skirts and pockets that would have held the 
church Bible and prayer-book : and his small legs seemed still 
smaller from being planted in large shoes decorated with enor- 
mous buckles. 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson had 
been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received this liv- 
ing shortly after the latter had come to his estate. He was a 
complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work 
printed in the Roman character. The editions of Caxton and 
Wynkyn de Worde were his delight, and he was indefatigable in 
his researches after such old English writers as have fallen into 
oblivion from their worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to the 
notions of Mr. Bracebridge he had made diligent investigations 
into the festive rites and holiday customs of former times, and 
had been as zealous in the inquiry as if he had been a boon 
companion ; but it was merely with that plodding spirit with 
which men of adust temperament follow up any track of study, 
merely because it is denominated learning ; indifferent to its in- 
trinsic nature, whether it be the illustration of the wisdom or of 
the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored over these 



CHRISTMAS DAY 205 

old volumes so intensely that they seemed to have been reflected 
into his countenance ; which, if the face be indeed an index of 
the mind, might be compared to a title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church-porch we found the parson rebuking 
the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the 
greens with wdiich the church was decorated. It was, he ob- 
served, an unholy plant, profaned by having been used by the 
Druids in their mystic ceremonies ; and, though it might be 
innocently employed in the festive ornamenting of halls and 
kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of the Church 
as unhallowed and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tena- 
cious was he on this point that the poor sexton was obliged to 
strip down a great part of the humble trophies of his taste 
before the parson would consent to enter upon the service of 
the day. 

The interior of the church was venerable, but simple ; on the 
walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, and 
just beside tlie altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on 
which lay the effigy of a warrior in armor with his legs crossed, 
a sign of his having been a crusader, I was told it was one of 
the family who had signalized himself in the Holy Land, and 
the same whose picture hung over the fireplace in the hall. 

During service Master Simon stood up in the pew and re- 
peated the responses very audibly, evincing that kind of cere- 
monious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman of the 
old school and a man of old family connections. I observed 
too that he turned over the leaves of a folio prayer-book with 
something of a flourish ; possibly to show off" an enormous seal- 
ring which enriched one of his fingers and which had the look of 
a family relic. But he was evidently most solicitous about the 
musical part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently on the 
choir, and beating time with much gesticulation and emphasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most 
whimsical grouping of heads piled one above the other, among 



206 THE SKETCH BOOK 

which I particularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale 
fellow with a retreating forehead and chin, who played on the 
clarinet, and seemed to have blown his face to a point ; and 
there was another, a short pursy man, stooping and laboring at \ 
a bass-viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a round bald 
head, like the egg of an ostrich. There were two or three 
pretty faces among the female singers, to which the keen air of 
a frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint ; but the gentle- 
men choristers had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona fid- 
dles, more for tone than looks ; and as several had to sing from 
the same book, there were clusterings of odd physiognomies not 
unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on country 
tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, | 
the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumen- | 
tal, and some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost ' 
time by travelling over a passage with prodigious celerity and \ 
clearing more bars than the keenest fox-hunter to be in at the j 
death. But the great trial was an anthem that had been pre- ; 
pared and arranged by Master Simon, and on which he had \ 
founded great expectation. Unluckily, there was a blunder at I 
the very outset : the musicians became flurried ; Master Simon ] 
was in a fever ; everything went on lamely and irregularly until | 
they came to a chorus beginning, " Now let us sing with one { 
accord," which seemed to be a signal for parting company : all \ 
became discord and confusion : each shifted for himself, and got i 
to the end as well — or, rather, as soon — as he could, except- , 
ing one old chorister in a pair of horn spectacles bestriding and -. 
pinching a long sonorous nose, who happened to stand a little ' 
apart, and, being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a \ 
quavering course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, and wind- ^ 
ing all up by a nasal solo of at least three bars' duration. j 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and \ 
ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it not ; 



i 



CHRISTMAS DAY 207 

merely as a day of thanksgiving but' of rejoicing, supporting the 
correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages of the Church, 
and enforcing them by the authorities of Theophilus of Csesarea, 
St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostoin, St. Augustine, and a cloud more 
of saints and fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. 
I was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a 
mighty array of forces to maintain a point which no one present 
seemed inclined to dispute ; but I soon found that the good 
man had a legion of ideal adversaries to contend with, having 
in the course of his researches on the subject of Christmas got 
completely embroiled in the sectarian controversies of the 
Revolution, when the Puritans made such a fierce assault upon 
the ceremonies of the Church, and poor old Christmas was 
driven out of the land by proclamation of Parliament." The 
worthy parson lived but with times past, and knew but little of 
the present. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his 
antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to him as 
the gazettes of the day, while the era of the Revolution was 
mere modern history. He forgot that nearly two centuries had 
elapsed since the fiery persecution of poor mince-pie through- 
out the land : w^hen plum porridge was denounced as " mere 
popery," and roast beef as anti-christian, and that Christmas 
had been brought in again triumphantly with the merry court 
of King Charles at the Restoration. He kindled into warmth 
with the ardor of his contest and the host of imaginary foes 
"With whom he had to combat ; he had a stubborn conflict with 
old Prynne and two or three other forgotten champions of the 
Round Heads on the subject of Christmas festivity ; and con- 
cluded by urging his hearers, in the most solemn and affecting 
manner, to stand to the traditional customs of their fathers and 
*east and make merry on this joyful anniversaiy of the Church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with 
nore immediate effects, for on leaving the church the congrega- 



208 THE SKETCH BOOK 

tion seemed one and all possessed with the gayety of spirit so 
earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder folks gathered 
in knots in the churchyard, greeting and shaking hands, 
and the children ran about crying Ule ! Ule ! and repeat- 
ing some uncouth rhymes, ° which the parson, who had 
joined us, informed me had been handed down from days of 
yore. The villagers doffed their hats to the squire as he 
passed, giving him the good wishes of the season with every 
appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to 
the hall to take something to keep out the cold of the weather ; ; 
and I heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, which 
convinced me that, in the midst of his enjoyments, the worthy 
old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christmas virtue of 
charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed with | 
generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising 1 
ground which commanded something of a prospect, the sounds | 
of rustic merriment now and then reached our ears : the squire \ 
paused for a few moments and looked around with an air of in- 
expressible benignity. The beauty of the day was of itself 
sufficient to inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frosti- 
ness of the morning the sun in his cloudless journey had acquired 
sufficient power to melt away the thin covering of snow from 
every southern declivity, and to bring out the living green which 
adorns an English landscape even in mid-winter. Large tracts 
of smiling verdure contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of the 
shaded slopes and hollows. Every sheltered bank on which the 
broad rays rested yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water, 
glittering through the dripping grass, and sent up slight exhala- 
tions to contribute to the thin haze that hung just above 
the surface of the earth. There was something truly cheering 
in this triumph of warmth and verdure over the frosty thral- 
dom of winter ; it was, as the squire observed, an emblem of 
Christmas hospitality breaking through the chills of ceremony 



CHRISTMAS DAY 209 

and selfishness and thawing every heart into a flow. He pointed 
with pleasure to the indications of good cheer reeking from the 
chimneys of the comfortable farm-houses and low thatched cot- 
tages. " I love," said he, " to see this day well kept by rich 
and poor ; it is a great thing to have one day in the year, at 
least, when you are sure of being welcome wherever you go, and 
of having, as it were, the world all thrown open to you ; and I 
am almost disposed to join with Poor Robin in his malediction 
on e^ery churlish enemy to this honest festival : — 

" 'Those who at Christmas do repine, 

And would fain hence dispatch him, 
May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 
Or else may Squire Ketch catch 'em.' " 

The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the 
games and amusements which were once prevalent at this season 
among the lower orders and countenanced by the higher, when 
the old hails of castles and manor-houses were thrown open 
at daylight ; when the tables were covered with brawn and 
beef and humming ale ; when the harp and the carol resounded 
all day long ; and when rich and poor were alike welcome to 
enter and m.ake merry.° "Our old games and local customs," 
said he, " had a great effect in making the peasant fond of his 
home, and the promotion of them by the gentry made him fond 
of his lord. They made the times merrier and kinder and 
better, and I can truly say, with one of our old poets, 

*' ' I like them well : the curious preciseness 
And all-pretended gravity of those 
That seek to hanish hence these harmless sports, 
Have thrust away much ancient honesty.' " 

"The nation," continued he, "is altered; we have almost 
lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have broken 
asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think their inter- 
ests are separate. They have become too knowing, and begin to 
p 



210 THE SKETCH BOOK 

read newspapers, listen to ale-house politicians, and talk of re- 
form. I think one mode to keep them in good-humor in these 
hard times would be for the nobility and gentry to pass more 
time on their estates, mingle more among the country-people, 
and set the merry old English games going again." 

Such was the good squire's project for mitigating public dis- 
content : and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his doctrine 
in practice, and a few years before had kept open house during 
the holidays in the old style. The country-people, however, did 
not understand how to play their parts in the scene of hospitality; 
many uncouth circumstances occurred ; the manor WcS overrun 
by all the vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn into 
the neighborhood in one week than the parish officers could get 
rid of in a year. Since then he had contented himself with 
inviting the decent part of the neighboring peasantry to call at 
the hall on Christmas Day, and with distributing beef, and 
bread, and ale among the poor, that they might make merry in 
their own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound of music was 
heard from a distance. A band of country lads, without coats, 
their shirt-sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, their hats deco- 
rated with greens, and clubs in their hands, was seen advancing 
up the avenue, followed by a large number of villagers and 
peasantry. They stopped before the hall door, where the music 
struck up a peculiar air, and the lads performed a curious and 
intricate dance, advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs 
together, keeping exact time to the music ; while one, whimsi- 
cally crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down 
his back, kept capering round the skirts of the dance and rat- 
tlhig a Christmas box with many antic gesticulations. 

The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest 
and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he 
traced to the times when the Romans held possession of the 
island, plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of the 



CHRISTMAS DAY 211 

sword dance of the ancients. "It was now," he said, "nearly 
extinct, but he had accidentally met with traces of it in the 
neighborhood, and had encouraged its revival ; though, to tell 
the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by the rough cudgel 
play and broken heads in the evening." 

After the dance was concluded the whole party was enter- 
tained with brawn and beef and stout home-brewed. The 
squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was received 
with awkward demonstrations of deference and regard. It is 
true I perceived two or three of the younger peasants, as they 
were raising their tankards to their mouths, when the squire's 
back was turned making something of a grimace, and giving 
each other the wink ; but the moment they caught my eye they 
pulled grave faces and were exceedingly demure. With Master 
Simon, however, they all seemed more at their ease. His varied 
occupations and amusements had made him well known through- 
out the neighborhood. He was a visitor at every farm-house 
and cottage, gossiped with the farmers and their wives, romped 
with their daughters, and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor, 
the humblebee, tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the 
country round. 

The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good 
cheer and affability. There is something genuine and affection- 
ate in the gayety of the lower orders when it is excited by the 
bounty and familiarity of those above them ; the warm glow of 
gratitude enters into their mirth, and a kind word or small 
pleasantry frankly uttered by a patron gladdens the heart of 
the dependant more than oil and wine. When the squire had 
retired the merriment increased and there was much joking and 
laughter, particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy- 
faced, white-headed farmer who appeared to be the wit of the 
village ; for I observed all his companions to wait with open 
mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gratuitous laugh before 
they could well understand them. 



212 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merriment : as 
I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound of 
music in a small court, and, looking through a window that com- 
manded it, I perceived a band of wandering musicians with 
pandean pipes and tambourine; a pretty coquettish housemaid 
was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while several of the 
other servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport 
the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and, color- 
ing up, ran off with an air of roguish affected confusion. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 

Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast! 

Let every man be jolly. 
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest, 

And every post with holly. 
Now all our neighbors' chimneys smoke, 

And Christmas blocks are burning ; 
Their ovens they with bak't meats choke 
And all their spits are turning. 
Without the door let sorrow lie, 
And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
Wee'le bury't in a Christmas pye, • 
And evermore be merry. 

Withers' Juvenilia. 

I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank 
Bracebridge in the library, when we heard a distant thwacking 
sound, which he informed me was a signal for the serving up of 
the dinner. The squire kept up old customs in kitchen as well 
as hall, and the rolling-pin, struck upon the dresser by the cook, 
summoned the servants to carry in the meats. 

Just in this nick the cook knock 'd thrice 
And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey ; 
Each serving-man with dish in hand, 
March'd boldly up, like our train-band, 

Presented and away.° 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 213 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the squire 
always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing crackling fire 
of logs had been heaped on to warm the spacious apartment, 
and the flame went sparkling and wreathing up the wide- 
mouthed chimney. The great picture of the crusader and his 
white horse had been profusely decorated with greens for the 
occasion, and holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed round 
the helmet and weapons on the opposite wall, which I under- 
stood were the arms of the same warrior. I must own, by the 
by, I had strong doubts about the authenticity of the painting 
and armor as having belonged to the crusader, they certainly 
having the stamp of more recent days ; but I was told that the 
painting had been so considered time out of mind ; and that as to 
the armor, it had been found in a lumber-room and elevated to its 
present situation by the squire, who at once determined it to be 
the armor of the family hero ; and as he was absolute authority 
on all such subjects in his own household, the matter had 
passed into current acceptation. A sideboard was set out just 
under this chivalric trophy, on which was a display of plate 
that might have vied (at least in variety) with Belshazzar's 
parade of the vessels of the temple : " flagons, cans, cups, 
beakers, goblets, basins, and ewers," the gorgeous utensils of 
good companionship that had gradually accumulated through 
many generations of jovial housekeepers. Before these stood 
the two Yule candles, beaming like two stars of the first magni- 
tude ; other lights were distributed in branches, and the whole 
array glittered like a firmament of silver. 

We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound 
of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a stool beside the 
fireplace and twanging his instrument with a vast deal more 
power than melody. Never did Christmas board display a 
more goodly and gracious assemblage of countenances ; those 
who were not handsome were at least happy, and happiness is a 
rare improver of your hard-favored visage. I always consider 



214 THE SKETCH BOOK 

an old English family as well worth studying as a collection of 
Holbein's portraits or Albert Diirer's prints. There is much 
antiquarian lore to be acquired, much knowledge of the physi- 
ognomies of former times. Perhaps it may be from having 
continually before their eyes those rows of old family portraits, 
with which the mansions of this country are stocked ; jertain it 
is that the quaint features of antiquity are often most faithfully 
perpetuated in these ancient lines, and I have traced an old 
family nose through a whole picture-gallery, legitimately handed 
down from generation to generation almost from the time of the 
Conquest. Something of the kind was to be observed in the 
worthy company around me. Many of their faces had evidently 
originated in a Gothic age, and been merely copied by succeed- 
ing generations ; and there was one little girl in particular, 
of staid demeanor, with a high Roman nose and an antique 
vinegar aspect, who was a great favorite of the squire's, 
being, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very 
counterpart of one of his ancestors who figured in the court 
of Henry VIII. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar one, 
such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these unceremo- 
nious days, but a long, courtly, well-worded one of the ancient 
school. There was now a pause, as if something was expected, 
when suddenly the butler entered the hall with some degree of 
bustle : he was attended by a servant on each side with a large 
wax-light, and bore a silver dish on which was an enormous 
pig's head decorated with rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, 
which was placed with great formality at the head of the table. 
The moment this pageant made its appearance the harper struck 
up a flourish ; at the conclusion of which the young Oxonian, 
on receiving a hint from the squire, gave, with an air of the 
most comic gravity, an old carol, the first verse of which was as 
follows : — 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 215 

Caput api-i defero 

Reddens laudes Domino. 
The boar's head in hand bring I, 
"With garlands gay and rosemary. 
I pray you all synge merily 

Qui estis in convivio. 

Though prepared to witness many of these little eccentricities, 
from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine host, yet I 
confess the parade with which so odd a dish was introduced 
somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered from the conversation 
of the squire and the parson that it was meant to represent the 
bringing in of the boar's head, a dish formerly served up with 
much ceremony and the sound of minstrelsy and song at great 
tables on Christmas Day. " I like the old custom," said the 
squire, " not merely because it is stately and pleasing in itself, 
but because it was observed at the college at Oxford at which 
I was educated. When I hear the old song chanted it brings 
to mind the time when I was young and gamesome, and the 
noble old college hall, and my fellow-students loitering about in 
their black gowns ; many of whom, poor lads ! are now in their 
.graves." 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such 
associations, and who was always more taken up with the text 
than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's version of the 
carol, which he affirmed was different from that sung at college. 
He went on, with the dry perseverance of a commentator, to 
give the college reading, accompanied by sundry annotations, 
addressing himself at first to the company at large ; but, find- 
ing their attention gradually diverted to other talk and other 
objects, he lowered his tone as his number of auditors diminished, 
until he concluded his remarks in an under voice to a fat-headed 
old gentleman next him who was silently engaged in the discus- 
sion of a huge plateful of turkey. ° 

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and presented 
an epitome of country abundance in this season of overflowing 



216 THE SKETCH BOOK 

larders. A distinguished post was allotted to "ancient sirloin" 
as mine host termed it, being, as he added, " the standard of 
old English hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full 
of expectation." There were several dishes quaintly decorated, 
and which had evidently something traditional in their embel- 
lishments, but about which, as I did not like to appear over- 
curious, I asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie magnificently deco- 
rated with peacock's feathers, in imitation of the tail of that 
bird, which overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. 
This, the squire confessed with some little hesitation, was a 
pheasant pie, though a peacock pie was certainly the most 
authentical ; but there had been such a mortality among the 
peacocks this season that he could not prevail upon himself to 
have one killed. ° 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may 
not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things to 
which *! am a little given, were I to mention the other make- 
shifts of this worthy old humorist, by which he was endeavor- 
ing to follow up, though at humble distance, the quaint customs 
of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the respect shown 
to his whims by his children and relatives ; who, indeed, en- 
tered readily into the full spirit of them, and seemed all well 
versed in their parts, having doubtless been present at many a 
rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the air of profound gravity 
with which the butler and other servants executed the duties 
assigned them, however eccentric. They had an old-fashioned 
look, having, for the most part, been brought up in the house- 
hold and grown into keeping with the antiquated mansion and 
the humors of its lord, and most probably looked upon all his 
whimsical regulations as the established laws of honorable 
housekeeping. 

When the cloth was removed the butler brought in a huge 
silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 217 

before the squire. Its appearance was hailed with acclamation, 
being the Wassail Bowl,° so renowned in Christmas festivity. 
The contents had been* prepared by the squire himself; for it 
was a beverage in the skilful mixture of which he particularly 
prided himself, alleging that it was too abstruse and complex 
for the comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was a pota- 
tion, indeed, that might well make the heart of a toper leap 
within Mm, being composed, of the richest and raciest wines, 
highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about 
the surface.'' 

Tlie old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a serene 
look of indwelling delight as he stirred this mighty bowl. Hav- 
ing raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a merry Christ- 
mas to all present, he sent it brimming round the board, for 
every one to follow his example, according to the primitive 
style, pronouncing it " the ancient fountain of good feeling, 
where all hearts met together. "° 

There was much laughing and rallying as the honest emblem 
of Christmas joviality circulated and was kissed rather coyly 
'by the ladies. When it reached Master Simon, he raised it in 
both hands, and with the air of a boon companion struck up 
an old Wassail chanson : — 

The brown bowle, 

The merry brown bowle, 

As it goes round-about-a, 

Fill 

Still, 
Let the world say what It will. 
And drink your fill all out-a. 

• 

The deep canne, 

The merry deep canne, 

As thou dost freely quaff-a, 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be as merry as a king, 
And sound a lusty laugh-a.° 



218 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upoa family ) 

topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, however, a great . 

deal of rallying of Master Simon aboAt some gay widow with \ 

whom he was accused of having a flirtation. This attack was i 

commenced by the ladies, but it was continued throughout the \ 

dinner by the fat-headed old gentleman next the parson with ; 

the persevering assiduity of a slow hound, being one of those ; 

long-winded jokers who, though rather dull at starting game, \ 

are unrivalled for their talents in hunting it down. At every i 

pause in the general conversation he renewed his bantering in ; 

pretty much the same terms, winking hard at me with both « 

eyes whenever he gave Master Simon what he considered a , 

home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased on i 

the subject, as old bachelors are apt to be, and he took occasion ^ 

to inform me, in an undertone, that the lady in question was a ' 

prodigiously fine woman and drove her own curricle. ; 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent hilarity, ' 
and, though the old hall may have resounded in its time with 

many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it i 

ever witnessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy j 

it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around him ! j 

and liow truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making \ 

everything in its vicinity to freshen into smiles ! The joyous ; 

disposition of the worthy squire was perfectly contagious; he i 

was happy himself, and disposed to make all the world happy, . 

and the little eccentricities of his humor did but season, in a ; 

manner, the sweetness of his philanthropy. | 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, be- 
came still more animated ; many good things were broached 
which had been thought of during dinner, but which would not 
exactly do for a lady's ear ; and, though I cannot positively 
affirm that there was much wit uttered, yet I have certainly 
heard many contests of rare wit produce much less laughter. 
Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 219 

too acid for some stomachs ; but honest goocl-humor is the oil 
and wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial companion- 
ship equal to that where the jokes are rather small and the 
laughter abundant. 

The squire told several long stories of early college pranks 
and adventures, in some of which the parson had been a sharer, 
though in looking at the latter it required some effort of imagi- 
nation to figure such a little dark anatomy of a man into the 
perpetrator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, the two college 
chums presented pictures of what men may be made by their 
different lots in life. The squire had left the university to live 
lustily on his paternal domains in the vigorous enjoyment of 
prosperity and sunshine, and had flourished on to a hearty and 
florid old age; whilst the poor parson, on the contrary, had 
dried and withered away among dusty tomes in the silence and 
shadows of his study. Still, there seemed to be a spark of 
almost extinguished fire feebly glimmering in the bottom of his 
soul ; and as the squire hinted at a sly story of the parson and 
a pretty milkmaid whom they once met on the banks of the 
I«is, the old gentleman made an " alphabet of faces," which, as 
far as I could decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was 
indicative of laughter ; indeed, I have rarely met with an old 
gentleman that took absolute offence at the imputed gallantries 
of his youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the dry 
land of sober judgment. The company grew merrier and louder 
as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was in as chirping 
a humor as a grasshopper filled with dew ; his old songs grew 
of a warmer complexion, and he began to talk maudlin about 
the widow. He even gave a long song about the wooing of a 
widow which he informed me he had gathered from an excel- 
lent black-letter work entitled Cupid's Solicitor for Love, con- 
taining store of good advice for bachelors, and which he promised 
to lend me ; the first verse was to this effect : — 



220 THE SKETCH BOOK 

He that will woo a widow must not dally, 
He must make hay while the sun doth shine ; 

He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine. 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who made 
several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of Joe Miller° that 
was pat to the purpose ; but he always stuck in the middle, every- 
body recollecting the latter part excepting himself. The parson, 
too, began to show the effects of good cheer, having gradually set- 
tled down into a doze and his wig sitting most suspiciously on one 
side. Just at this juncture we were summoned to the drawing- 
room, and I suspect, at the private instigation of mine host, whose 
joviality seemed always tempered with a proper love of decorum. 

After the dinner table was removed the hall was given up to 
the younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kind 
of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made its old 
walls ring with their merriment as they played at romping games, 
I delight in witnessing the gambols of children, and particularly 
at this happy holiday season, and could not help stealing out 
of the drawing-room on hearing one of their peals of laughter. 
I found them at the game of blindman's-buflf. Master Simon, 
who was the leader of their revels, and seemed on all occasions 
to fulfil the office of that ancient potentate, the Lord of Mis- 
rule,^ was blinded in the midst of the hall. The little beings 
were as busy about him as the mock fairies about Falstaff, 
pinching him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and tickling 
him with straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, 
with her flaxen hair all in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in 
a glow, her frock half torn off her shoulders, a complete pic- 
ture of a romp, was the chief tormentor ; and, from the slyness 
with which Master Simon avoided the smaller game and hemmed 
this wild little nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump shriek- 
ing over chairs, I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more 
blinded than was convenient. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 221 

When I returned to the drawing-room I found the company- 
seated round the fire listening to tlie parson, who was deeply- 
ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of some cun- 
ning artificer of yore, which had been brought from the library 
for his particular accommodation. From this venerable piece 
of furniture, with which his shadowy figure and dark weazen 
face so admirably accorded, he was dealing out strange accounts 
of the popular superstitions and legends of the surrounding coun- 
try, with which he had become acquainted in the course of his 
antiquarian researches. I am half inclined to think that the 
old gentleman was himself somewhat tinctured with supersti- 
tion, as men are very apt to be who live a recluse and studious 
life in a sequestered part of the country and pore over black- 
letter tracts, so often filled with the marvellous and supernatural. 
He gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring 
peasantry concerning the effigy of the crusader which lay on the 
tomb by the church altar. As it was the only monument of 
the kind in that part of the country, it had always been regarded 
with feelings of superstition by the good wives of the village. 
It was said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of 
the churchyard in stormy nights, particularly when it thundered ; 
and one old woman, whose cottage bordered on the churchyard, 
had seen it through the windows of the church, when the moon 
shone, slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It was the belief 
that some wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, or 
some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of trouble 
and restlessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the 
tomb, over which the spectre kept watch ; and there was a 
story current of a sexton in old times who endeavored to break 
his way to the coffin at night, but just as he reached it received 
a violent blow from the marble hand of the effigy, which stretched 
him senseless on the pavement. These tales were often laughed 
at by some of the sturdier among the rustics, yet when night 
came on there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were 



222 THE SKETCH BOOK 

shy of venturing alone in the footpath that* led across the church- 
yard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed the crusader 
appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost-stories throughout the 
vicinity. His picture, which hung up in the hall, was thought by 
the servants to have something supernatural about it ; for they 
remarked that in whatever part of the hall you went the eyes 
of the warrior were still fixed on you. The old porter's wife, 
too, at the lodge, who had been born and brought up in the 
family, and was a great gossip among the maid-servants, af- 
firmed that in her young days she had often heard say that on 
Midsummer Eve, when it was well known all kinds of ghosts, 
goblins, and fairies become visible and walk abroad, the crusader 
used to mount his horse, come down from his picture, ride about 
the house, down the avenue, and so to the church to visit the 
tomb ; on Avhich occasion the church-door most civilly swung 
open of itself; not that he needed it, for he rode through closed 
gates, and even stone walls, and had been seen by one of the 
dairymaids to pass between two bars of the great park gate, 
making himself as thin as a sheet of paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very much counte- 
nanced by the squire, who, though not superstitious himself, 
was very fond of seeing others so. He listened to every goblin 
tale of the neighboring gossips with infinite gravity, and held 
the porter's wife in high favor on account of her talent for the 
marvellous. He was himself a great reader of old legends and 
romances, and often lamented that he could not believe in them ; 
for a superstitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of 
fairy-land. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our ears 
were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous sounds from 
the hall, in which were mingled something like the clang of rude 
minstrelsy with the uproar of many small voices and girlish 
laughter. The door suddenly flew open, and a train came 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 223 

crooping into the room that might ahnost have been mistaken 
for the breaking up of the court of Faery. That indefatigable 
spirit, Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as 
lord of misrule, had conceived the idea of a Christmas mummery 
or masking; and having called in to his assistance the Ox- 
onian and the young officer, who were equally ripe for anything 
that should occasion romping and merriment, they had carried 
it into instant effect. The old housekeeper had been consulted ; 
the antique clothespresses and wardrobes rummaged and made 
to yield up the relics of finery that had not seen the light for 
several generations ; the younger part of the company had been 
privately convened from the parlor and hall, and the whole had 
been bedizened out into a burlesque imitation of an antique 
mask.° 

Master Simon led the van, as "Ancient Christmas," quaintly 
apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had very much the 
aspect of one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, and a hat that 
might have served for a village steeple, and must indubitably 
have figured in the days of the Covenanters.® From under this 
his nose curved boldly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom 
that seemed the very trophy of a December blast. He was ac- 
companied by the blue-eyed romp, dished up, as "Dame Mince 
Pie," in the venerable magnificence of a faded brocade, long 
stomacher, peaked hat, and high-heeled shoes. The young 
officer appeared as Robin Hood,° in a sporting dress of Kendal 
green and a foraginp^ cap with a gold tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep 
research, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, natu- 
ral to a young gallant in the presence of his mistress. The fair 
Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress as "Maid 
Marian." ° The rest of the train had been metamorphosed in 
various ways ; the girls trussed up in the finery of the ancient 
belles of the Bracebridge line, and the striplings bewhiskered 
with burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging 



224 THE SKETCH BOOK 

sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to represent the character of 
Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other worthies celebrated in 
ancient maskings. The whole was under the control of the 
Oxonian in the appropriate character of Misrule; and I ob- 
served that he exercised rather a mischievous sway with his \ 
wand over the smaller personages of the pageant. | 

The irruption of this motley crew with beat of drum, ac- ' 
cording to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar i 
and merriment. Master Simon covered himself with glory by \ 
the stateliness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a ' 
minuet with the peerless though giggling Dame Mince Pie. It ] 
was followed by a dance of all the characters, which from its ■ 
medley of costumes seemed as though the old family portraits | 
had skipped down from their frames to join in the sport. Dif- 
ferent centuries were figuring at cross hands and right and left ; { 
the Dark Ages were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons ; and the ; 
days of Queen Bess jiggling merrily down the middle through a j 
line of succeeding generations. \ 

The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic sports and i 

this resurrection of his old wardrobe with the simple relish of j 

childish delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing his hands, { 

and scarcely hearing a word the parson said, notwithstanding \ 

that the latter was discoursing most authentically on the ancient \ 

and stately dance of the Paon, or peacock, from which he con- \ 

ceived the minuet° to be derived.° For my part, I was in a ' 

continual excitement from the varied scenes of whim and j 

innocent gayety passing before me. It was inspiring to see ' 

wild-eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitality breaking out from - 
among the chills and glooms of winter, and old age throwing 

off his apathy and catching once more the freshness of youthful ; 

enjoyment. I felt also an interest in the scene from the con- i 

sideration that these fleeting customs were posting fast into j 

oblivion, and that this was perhaps the only family in England j 

in which the whole of them was still punctiliously observed, i 



LONDON ANTIQUES 225 

There was a quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry that 
gave it a peculiar zest : it was suited to the time and place ; 
and as the old manor-house almost reeled with mirth and was- 
sail, it seemed echoing back the joviality of long departed years.° 

But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time for me 
to pause in this gaiTulity. Methinks I hear the questions 
asked by my graver readers, " To what purpose is all this ? how 
is the world to be made wiser by this talk ? " Alas ! is there 
not wisdom enough extant for the instruction of the world? 
And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens laboring for 
its improvement ? It is so much pleasanter to please than to 
instruct — to play the companion rather than the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw 
into the mass of knowledge ? or how am I sure that my sagest 
deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others? But 
in writing to amuse, if I fail the only evil is in my own disap- 
pointment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in these 
days of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care or 
beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow ; if I can now 
and then penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, 
prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my 
reader more in good-humor with his fellow-beings and himself 
— surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in 
vain. 



LONDON ANTIQUES 



I do walk 



Methinks like Gnido Vaux, with my dark lanthorn, 
Stealinsj to set the town o' lire ; i' th' country 
I should be taken for William o' the Wisp, 
Or Robin Goodfellow. 

Fletcher. 

I AM somewhat of an antiquity-hunter, and am fond of ex- 
ploring London in quest of the relics of old times. These are 



226 THE SKETCH BOOK 

principally to be found in the depths of the city, swallowed up 
and almost lost in a wilderness of brick and mortar, but deriv- 
ing poetical and romantic interest from the commonplace, 
prosaic world around them. I w^as struck with an instance of 
the kind in the course of a recent summer ramble into the city ; 
for the city is only to be explored to advantage in summer-time, 
when free from the smoke and fog and rain and mud of winter. 
I had been buffeting for some time against the current of popu- 
lation setting through Fleet street. The warm weather had 
unstrung my nerves and made me sensitive to every jar and 
jostle and discordant sound. The flesh was weary, the spirit 
faint, and I was getting out of humor with the bustling busy 
throng through which I had to struggle, when in a fit of des- 
peration I tore my way through the crowd, plunged into a by- 
lane, and, after passing through several obscure nooks and 
angles, emerged into a quaint and quiet court with a grassplot 
in the centre overhung by elms, and kept perpetually fresh and 
green by a fountain with its sparkling jet of water. A student 
with book in hand was seated on a stone bench, partly reading, 
partly meditating on the movements of two or three trim nursery- 
maids with their infant charges. 

I was like an Arab who had suddenly come upon an oasis 
amid the panting sterility of the desert. By degrees the quiet 
and coolness of the place soothed my nerves and refreshed my 
spirit. I pursued my walk, and came, hard by, to a very 
ancient chapel with a low-browed Saxon portal of massive and 
rich architecture. ° The interior was circular and lofty and 
lighted from above. Around were monumental tombs of 
ancient date on which were extended the marble effigies of 
warrior" in armor. Some had the hands devoutly crossed upon 
the breast ; others grasped the pommel of the sword, menacing 
hostility even in the tomb, while the crossed legs of several 
indicated soldiers of the Faith who had been on crusades to the 
Holy Land. 



LONDON ANTIQUES 227 

i was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights Templars, 
strangely situated in the very centre of sordid traffic ; and I do 
not know a more impressive lesson for the man of the world 
than thus suddenly to turn aside from the highway of busy 
money-seeking life, and sit down among these shadowy sepul- 
chres, where all is twilight, dust, and forgetfulness. 

In a subsequent tour of observation I encountered another 
of these relics of a " foregone world " locked up in the lieart of 
the city. I had been wandering for some time through dull 
monotonous streets, destitute of anything to strike the eye or 
excite the imagination, when I beheld before me a Gothic gateway 
of mouldering antiquity. It opened into a spacious quadrangle 
forming the courtyard of a stately Gothic pile, the portal of 
which stood invitingly open. 

It was apparently a public edifice, and, as I was antiquity- 
hunting, I ventured in, though with dubious steps. Meeting 
no one either to oppose or rebuke my intrusion, I continued on 
until I found myself in a great hall with a lofty arched roof 
and oaken gallery, all of Gothic architecture. At one end of 
the hall was an enormous fireplace, with wooden settles on 
each side ; at the other end was a raised platform, or dais, the 
seat of state, above which was the portrait of a man in antique 
garb with a long robe, a ruff, and a venerable gray beard. 

The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet and 
seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious charm was, that I 
had not met with a human being since I had passed the 
threshold. 

Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a recess of 
a large bov/ window, which admitted a broad flood of yellow 
sunshine, checkered here and there by tints from panes of 
colored glass, while an open casement let in the soft summer 
air. Here, leaning my head on my hand and my arm on an 
old oaken table, I indulged in a sort of reverie about what 
might have been the ancient uses of this edifice. It had 



228 THE SKETCH BOOK 

evidently been of monastic origin ; perhaps one of those col- 
legiate establishments built of yore for the promotion of learn 
iug, where the patient monk, in the ample solitude of the 
cloister, added page to page and volume to volume, emulating 
in the productions of his brain the magnitude of the pile he 
inhabited. 

As I was seated in this musing mood a small panelled door 
in an arch at the upper end of the hall was opened, and a 
number of gray-headed old men, clad in long black cloaks, 
came forth one by one, proceeding in that manner through the 
hall, without uttering a word, each turning a pale face on me 
as he passed, and disappearing through a door at the lower 
end. 

I was singularly struck with their appearance ; their black 
cloaks and antiquated air comported with the style of this 
most venerable and mysterious pile. It was as if the ghosts of 
the departed years, about which I had been musing, were 
passing in review before me. Pleasing myself with such 
fancies, I set out, in the spirit of romance, to explore what I 
pictured to myself a realm of shadows existing in the very 
centre of substantial realities. 

My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior courts and 
corridors and dilapidated cloisters, for the main edifice had 
many additions and dependencies, built at various times and 
in various styles. In one open space a number of boys, who 
evidently belonged to the establishment, were at their sports, 
but everywhere I observed those mysterious old gray men in 
black mantles, sometimes sauntering alone, sometimes convers- 
ing in groups ; they appeared to be the pervading genii of the' 
place. I now called to mind what I had read of certain 
colleges in old times, where judicial astrology, geomancy, necro- 
mancy, and other forbidden and magical sciences were taught. 
Was this an establishment of the kind and were these black- 
cloaked old men really professors of the black art ? 



LONDON ANTIQUES 229 

These surmises were passing through my mind as my eye 
glanced into a chamber hung round with all kinds of strange 
and uncouth objects — implements of savage warfare, strange 
idols and stuffed alligators ; bottled serpents and monsters 
decorated the mantelpiece ; while on the high tester of an old- 
fashioned bedstead grinned a human skull, flanked on each 
side by a dried cat. 

I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic chamber, 
which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necromancer, when I 
was startled at beholding a human countenance staring at me 
from a dusky corner. It was that of a small, shrivelled old 
man with tliin cheeks, bright eyes, and gray, wiry, projecting 
eyebrows. I at first doubted whether it were not a mummy 
curiously preserved, but it moved, and I saw that it was alive. 
[t was another of these black-cloaked old men, and, as I re- 
garded his quaint physiognomy, his obsolete garb, and the 
liideous and sinister objects by which he was surrounded, I 
began to persuade myself that I had come upon the arch-mago 
who ruled over this magical fraternity. 

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited me to 
inter. I obeyed with singular hardihood, for how did I know 
ivhether a wave of his wand might not metamorphose me into 
jome strange monster or conjure me into one of the bottles 
)n his mantelpiece ? He proved, however, to be anything but 
I conjurer, and his simple garrulity soon dispelled all the magic 
md mystery with which I had enveloped this antiquated pile 
ind its no less antiquated inhabitants. 

It appeared that I had made my way into the centre of an 
incient asylum for superannuated tradesmen and decayed 
louseholders, with which was connected a school for .a limited 
lumber of boys. It was founded upwards of two ceiituries 
dnce on an old monastic establishment, and retained somewhat 
)f the conventual air and character. The shadowy line of old 
nen in black mantles who had passed before me in the hall, and 



230 THE SKETCH BOOK 

whom I had elevated into magi, turned out to be the pen- 
sioners returning from morning service in the chapel. 

John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities whom I hi 
made the arch magician, had been for six years a resident of th^ 
place, and had decorated this final nestling-place of his old a^ 
with relics and rarities picked up in the course of his life. Ac 
cording to his own account, he had been somewhat of a travellei 
having been once in France, and very near making a visit t\ 
Holland. He regretted not having visited the latter countrj 
"as then he might have said he had been there." He was evt| 
dently a traveller of the simple kind. 

He was aristocratical too in his notions, keeping aloof, as I 
found, from the ordinary run of pensioners. His chief associates 
were a blind man who spoke Latin and Greek, of both whicl 
languages Hallum was profoundly ignorant, and a broken-do wr 
gentleman who had run through a fortune of forty thousanc 
pounds left him by his father, and ten thousand pounds, th( 
marriage portion of his wife. Little Hallum seemed to considei 
it an indubitable sign of gentle blood as well as of lofty spiri^ 
to be able to squander such enormous sums. 

P. S. The picturesque remnant of old times into which .' 
have thus beguiled the reader is what is called the Charte 
House, originally the Chartreuse. It was founded in 1611, on 
the remains of an ancient convent, by Sir Thomas Sutton, be 
ing one of those noble charities set on foot by individual munifi 
cence, and kept up with the quaintness and sanctity of ancien 
times amidst the modern changes and innovations of London 
Here eighty broken-down men, who have seen better days, ar 
provided in their old age with food, clothing, fuel, and a yearl; 
allowance for private expenses. They dine together, as did th 
monks of old, in the hall which had been the refectory of th 
original convent. Attached to the establishment is a school fo 
forty-four boys. 

Stow, whose work I have consulted on the subject, speakin, 



LONDON ANTIQUES 231 

of the obligations of the gray-headed pensioners, says, " They 
are not to intermeddle with any business touching the affairs 
of the hospital, but to attend only to the service of God, and 
take thankfully what is provided for them, without muttering, 
murmuring, or grudging. None to wear weapon, long hair, 
colored boots, spurs, or colored shoes, feathers in their hats, or 
any ruffian-like or unseemly apparel, but such as "becomes hospi- 
tal-men to wear." "And in truth," adds Stow, "happy are 
they that are so taken from the cares and sorrows of the world, 
and fixed in so good a place as these old men are; having 
nothing to care for but the good of their souls, to serve God, 
and to live in brotherly love." 



For the amusement of such as have been interested by the 
preceding sketch, taken down from my own observation, and 
who may wish to know a little more about the mysteries of 
London, I subjoin a modicum of local history put into my hands 
by an odd-looking old gentleman, in a small brown wig and a 
snuff-colored coat, with whom I became acquainted shortly after 
my visit to the Charter House. I confess I was a little dubi- 
ous at first whether it was not one of those apocryphal tales 
often passed off upon inquiring travellers like myself, and which 
have brought our general character for veracity into such un- 
merited reproach. On making proper inquiries, however, I 
have received the most satisfactory -assurances of the author's 
probity, and indeed have been told that he is actually engaged 
in a full and particular account of the very interesting region in 
which he resides, of which the following may be considered 
merely as a foretaste. 



232 THE SKETCH BOOK 



LITTLE BRITAIN 

What I write is most true I have a whole booke of cases lying 

by me, which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntieuts (withiu the 
hearing of Bow bell) would be out of charity with me. 

Nashe. 

In the centre of the great city of London lies a small neigh- 
borhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of 
very venerable and debilitated houses, which goes by the name 
of Little Britain. Christ Church School and St. Bartholo- 
mew's Hospital bound it on . the west ; Sraithfield and Long 
lane on the north ; Aldersgate street, like an arm of the sea, 
divides it from the eastern part of the city ; whilst the yawn- 
ing gulf of Bull-and-Mouth street separates it from Butcher lane 
and the regions of Newgate. Over this little territory, thus 
bounded and designated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelhng 
above the intervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, 
and Ave-Maria lane, looks down with an air of motherly pro- 
tection. 

This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in an- 
cient times, the residence of the dukes of Brittany. As London 
increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to the west, and 
trade, creeping on at their heels, took possession of their de- 
serted abodes. For some time Little Britain became the great 
mart of learning, and was peopled by the busy and prolific race 
of book-sellers : these also gradually deserted it, and, emigrating 
beyond the great strait of Newgate street, settled down in 
Paternoster Row and St. Paul's Churchyard, where they con- 
tinue to increase and multiply even at the present day. 

But, though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still bears 
traces of its former splendor. There are several houses ready 
to tumble down, the fronts of which are magnificently enriched 



LITTLE BRITAIN • 233 

with old oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, 
and fishes, and fruits and flowers which it would perplex a nat- 
uralist to classify. There are also, in Aldersgate street, certain 
remains of what were once spacious and lordly family mansions 
but which have in latter days been subdivided into several tene- 
jnents. Here may often be found the family of a petty trades- 
man, with its trumpery furniture, burrowing among the relics 
of antiquated finery in great rambling time-stained apartments 
with fretted ceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous marble fire- 
places. The lanes and courts also contain many smaller houses, 
not on so grand a scale, but, like your small ancient gentry, 
sturdily maintaining their claims to equal antiquity. These 
have their gable ends to the street, great bow windows with 
diamond panes set in lead, grotesque carvings, and low arched 
door way s.° 

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed 
several quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged in the sec- 
ond floor of one of the smallest but oldest edifices. My sitting- 
room is an old wainscotted chamber, with small panels and set 
off with a miscellaneous array of furniture. I have a particular 
respect for three or four high-backed, claw-footed chairs, covered 
with tarnished brocade, which bear the marks of having seen 
better days, and have doubtless figured in some of the old pal- 
aces of Little Britain. They seem to me to keep together and 
to look down with sovereign contempt upon their leathern-bot- 
tomed neighbors, as I have seen decayed gentry carry a high 
head among the plebeian society with which they were reduced 
to associate. The whole front of my sitting-room is taken up 
with a bow window, on the panes of which are recorded the 
names of previous occupants for many generations, mingled with 
scraps of very indifferent gentleman-like poetry, written in char- 
acters which I can scarcely decipher, and which extol the charms 
of many a beauty of Little Britain who has long, long since 
bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am an idle personage. 



234 THE SKETCH BOOK ' 1 

with no apparent occupation, and pay my bill regularly every i 
week, I am looked upon as the only independent gentleman of i 
the neighborhood, and, being curious to learn the internal state : 
of a community so apparently shut up within itself, I have; 
managed to work my way into all the concerns and secrets of j 
the place. I 

Little Britain may truly be called the heart's core of the cityl 
the stronghold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of Lon4 
don as it was in its better days, with its antiquated folks and 1 
fashions. Here flourish in great preservation many of the holi- 
day games and customs of yore. The inhabitants most reli- 
giously eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, hot cross-buns on Good I 
Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas ; they send love-letters 
on Valentine's Day, burn the pope on the Fifth of November, 
and kiss all the girls under the mistletoe at Christmas. Roast 
beef and plum-pudding are also held in superstitious veneration, 
and port and sherry maintain their grounds as the only true 
English wines, all others being considered vile outlandish bever- 
ages, j 

Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which i 
its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world, such as thef 
great bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it tolls;, 
the figures that strike the hours at St. Dunstan's clock; the: 
Monument ; the lions in the Tower ; and the wooden giants in- 
Guildhall. They still believe in dreams and fortune-telling, 
and an old woman that lives in Bull-and-Mouth street makes a 
tolerable subsistence by detecting stolen goods and promising 
the girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered uncom- 
fortable by comets and eclipses, and if a dog howls dolefully at 
night it is looked upon as a sure sign of death in the place.j 
There are even many ghost-stories current, particularly concern-' 
ing the old mansion-houses, in several of which it is said strange 
sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the former in full- 
bottomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter in lap- 



LITTLE BRITAIN 235 

pets,, stays, hoops, and brocade, have been seen walking up and 
down the great waste chambers on moonlight nights, and are 
supposed to be the shades of the ancient proprietors in theii 
court-dresses. 

Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One of 
the most important of the former is a tall, dry old gentleman of 
the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's shop. He ' 
has a cadaverous countenance, full of cavities and projections, 
with a brown circle round each eye, hke a pair of horn specta- 
cles. He is much thought of by the old women, who consider 
him as a kind of conjurer because he has two or three stuffed 
alligators hanging up in his shop and several snakes in bottles. 
He is a great reader of almanacs and newspapers, and is much 
given to pore over alarming accounts of plots, conspiracies, fires, 
earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions ; which last phenomena he 
considers as signs of the times. He has always some dismal 
tale of the kind to deal out to his customers with their doses, 
and thus at the same time puts both soul and body into an uproar. 
He is a great believer in omens and predictions ; and has the 
prophecies of Eobert Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart. No 
man can make so much out of an eclipse, or even an unusually 
dark day ; and he shook the tail of the last comet over the 
heads of his customers and disciples until they were nearly 
frightened out of their wits. He has lately got hold of a popu- 
lar legend or prophecy, on which he has been unusually eloquent. 
There has been a saying current among the ancient sibyls, who 
treasure up these things, that when the grasshopper on the top 
of the Exchange shook hands with the dragon on the top of 
Bow Church steeple, fearful events would take place. This 
strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. 
The same architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of 
the cupola of the Exchange and the steeple of Bow Church ; 
and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the grasshopper actually 
lie, cheek by jole, in the yard of his workshop. 



236 THE SKETCH BOOK 1 

"Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, "may go : 
star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here : 
is a conjunction on the earth, near at home and under our own j 
eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calculations of astrolo-| 
gers." Since these portentous weathercocks have thus laid I 
their heads together, wonderful events had already occurred. 
The good old king, notwithstanding that he had lived eighty-, 
two years, had all at once given up the ghost; another king 
had mounted the throne ; a royal duke had died suddenly ; an-, 
other, in France, had been murdered ; there had been radical 
meetings in all parts of the kingdom ; the bloody scenes at 
Manchester ; the great plot in Cato street ; and, above all, the 
queen had returned to England ! All these sinister events are 
recounted by Mr. Skryme with a mysterious look and a dismal 
shake of the head ; and being taken with his drugs, and asso- 
ciated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed sea-monsters, 
bottled serpents, and his own visage, which is a title-page of 
tribulation, they have spread great gloom through the minds ^ 
of the people of Little Britain. They shake their heads when- i 
ever they go by Bow Church, and observe that they never ex- 
pected any good to come of taking down that steeple, which in .{ 
old times told nothing but glad tidings, as the history of" 
Whittington and his Cat bears witness. 

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheese- 
monger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family 
mansions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round-bellied 
mite in the midst of one of his own Cheshires. Lideed, he is 
a man of no little standing and importance, and his renown 
extends through Huggin lane and Lad lane, and even unto 
Aldermanbury. His opinion is very much taken in affiiirs of 
state, having read the Sunday papers for the last half century, 
together with the Gentleman's Magazine^ Rapin's History of\ 
England^ and the Naval Chronicle. His head is stored with 
invaluable maxims which have borne the test of time and use 



LITTLE BRITAIN 237 

for centuries. It is his firm opinion that "it is a moral im- 
possible," so long as England is true to herself, that anything 
can shake her : and he has much to say on the subject of the 
national debt, which, somehow or other, he proves to be a 
great national bulwark and blessing. He passed the greater 
part of his life in the purlieus of Little Britain until of late 
years, when, having become rich and grown into the dignity of 
a Sunday cane, he begins to take his pleasure and see the world. 
He has therefore made several excursions to Hampstead, High- 
gate, and other neighboring towns, where he has passed whole 
afternoons in looking back upon the metropolis through a tele- 
scope and endeavoring to descry tlie steeple of St. Bartholo- 
mew's. Not a stage-coachman of Bull-and-Mouth street but 
touches his hat as he passes, and he is considered quite a 
patron at the coach-office of the Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's 
Churchyard. His family have been very urgent for him to 
make an expedition to Margate, but he has great doubts of 
those new gimcracks, the steamboats, and indeed thinks liimself 
too advanced in life to undertake sea-voyages. 

-Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, and 
party spirit ran very high at one time in consequence of two 
rival "burial societies" being set up in the place. One held 
its meeting at the Swan and Horseshoe, and was patronized by 
the cheesemonger ; the other at the Cock and Crown, under the 
auspices of the apothecary : it is needless to say that the latter 
was the most flourishing. I have passed an evening or two at 
each, and have acquired much valuable information as to the 
best mode of being buried, the comparative merits of church- 
yards, together with divers hints on the subject of patent iron 
cofiins. I have heard the question discussed in all its bearings 
as to the legality of prohibiting the latter on account of their 
durability. The feuds occasioned by these societies have hap- 
pily died of late ; but they were for a long time prevailing 
themes of controversy, the people of Little Britain being ex 



238 THE SKETCH BOOK 

tremely solicitous of funeral honors and of lying comfortably: 
in their graves. 

Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of quite a' 
different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good-humor 
over the whole neighborhood. It meets once a week at a little, 
old-fashioned house kept by a jolly publican of the name of 
Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia a resplendent half-moon, with 
a most seductive bunch of grapes. The whole edifice is cov- 
ered with inscriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer ; 
such as "Truman, Hanbury, and Co.'s Entire," "Wine, Rum, 
and Brandy Vaults," "Old Tom, Rum, and Compounds," etc. 
This indeed has been a temple of Bacchus and Moraus from 
time immemorial. It has always been in the family of the 
Wagstaffs, so that its history is tolerably preserved by the pres- 
ent landlord. It was much frequented by the gallants and cav- 
alieros of the reign of Elizabeth, and was looked into now and 
then by tlie wits of Charles the Second's day. But what Wag- 
staff principally prides himself upon is that Henry the Eighth, 
in one of his nocturnal rambles, broke the head of one of his 
ancestors with his famous walking-staff. This, however, is con- 
sidered as rather a dubious and vainglorious boast of the' land- 
lord. 

The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes by 
the name of "the Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They 
abound in old catches, glees, and choice stories that are tradi-; 
tional in the place and not to be met with in any other part of 
the metropolis. There is a madcap undertaker who is inimitable 
at a merry song, but the life of the club, and indeed the prime 
wit of Little Britain, is bully Wagstaff himself. His ancestors 
A^ere all wags before him, and he has inherited with the inn a 
large stock of songs and jokes, which go with it from generation 
to generation as heirlooms. He is a dapper little fellow, with 
bandy legs and pot belly, a red face with a moist merry eye, 
and a little shock of gray hair behind. At the opening oi 



LITTLE BRITAIN 239 

every club night he is called in to sing his " Confession of 
Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowl from " Gammer 
Gurton's Needle." He sings it, to be sure, with many varia- 
tions, as he received it from his father's lips ; for it has been 
a standing favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch of Grapes 
ever since it was written ; nay, he affirms that his predecessors 
have often had the honor of singing it before the nobility and 
gentry at Christmas mummeries, when Little Britain was in all 
its glory.° 

It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club night, the 
shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then 
the choral bursts of half a dozen discordant voices, which issue 
from this jovial mansion. At such times the street is lined 
with listeners, who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing into 
a confectioner's window or snuffing up the steams of a cook- 
shop. 

There are two annual events which produce great stir and 
sensation in Little Britain : these are St. Bartholomew's Fair** 
and the Lord Mayor's Day." During the time of the fair, which 
is held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is nothing 
going on but gossiping and gadding about. The late quiet 
streets of Little Britain are overrun with an irruption of 
strange figures and faces ; very tavern is a scene of rout and 
revel. The fiddle and the song are heard from the taproom 
morning, noon, and night ; and at each window may be seen 
some group of boon companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on 
one side, pipe in mouth and tankard in hand, fondling and 
prosing, and singing maudhn songs over their liquor. Even 
the sober decorum of private families, which I must say is 
rigidly kept up at other times among my neighbors, is no proof 
against this saturnalia. There is no such thing as keeping 
maid-servants within doors. Their brains are absolutely set 
madding with Punch and the Puppet-Show, the Flying Horses, 
Signior Polito, the Fire-Eater, the celebrated Mr. Paap, and 



240 THE SKETCH BOOK 



the Irish Giant. The children, too, lavish all their holiday; 
money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and fill the house with the 
Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and penny whistles. 

But the Lord Mayor's Day is the great anniversary. The 
Lord Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain 
as the greatest potentate upon earth, bis gilt coach with six 
horses as the summit of human splendor, and his procession, 
with all the sheriffs and aldermen in his train, as the grandest 
of earthly pageants. How they exult in the idea that the king 
himself dare not enter the city without first knocking at the 
gate of Temple Bar and asking permission of the Lord Mayor; 
for if he did, heaven and earth ! there is no knowing what 
might be the consequence. The man in armor who rides before 
the Lord Mayor, and is the city champion, has orders to cut 
down everybody that offends against the dignity of the city ; 
and then there is the little man with a velvet porjinger on his 
head, who sits at the window of the state coach and holds the 
city sword, as long as a pike-staff. Odd's blood ! if he once 
draws that sword, Majesty itself is not safe. 

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the 
good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar° is an 
effectual barrier against all interior foes ; and as to foreign in- 
vasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw himself into the 
Tower, call in the train-bands, and put the standing army of j 
Beef-eaters under arms, and he may bid defiance to the world ! j 

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and its i 
own opinions, Little Britain has long flourished as a sound i 
heart to this great fungous metropolis. I have pleased myself \ 
with considering it as a chosen spot, where the principles of 
sturdy John Bullism were garnered up, like seed corn, to renew 
the national character when it had run to waste and degeneracy, i 
I have rejoiced also in the general spirit of harmony that pre- \ 
vailed throughout it ; for though there might now and then be i 
a few clashes of opinion between the adherents of the cheese- ] 



LITTLE BRITAIN 241 

monger and the apothecary, and an occasional feud between the 
burial societies, yet these were but transient clouds and soon 
passed away. The neighbors met with good-will, parted with a 
shake of the hand, and never abused each other except behind 
their backs. 

I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties at 
which I have been present, where we played at All-Fours, Pope- 
Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old games, and where 
we sometimes had a good old English country dance to the tune 
of Sir Roger de Coverley, Once a year also the neighbors would 
gather together and go on a gypsy party to Epping Forest. It 
would have done any man's heart good to see the merriment 
that took place here as we banqueted on the grass under the 
trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts of laughter at 
the songs of little Wagstaflf and the merry undertaker ! After 
dinner, too, the young folks would play at blind m an 's-buff and 
hide-and-seek, and it was amusing to see them tangled among 
the briers, and to hear a fine romping girl now and then squeak 
from among the bushes. The elder folks would gather round 
the cheesemonger and the apothecary to hear them talk politics, 
for they generally brought out a newspaper in their pockets to 
pass away time in the country. They would now and then, to 
be sure, get a little warm in argument ; but their disputes were 
always adjusted by reference to a worthy old umbrella-maker in 
a double chin, who, never exactly comprehending the subject, 
managed somehow or other to decide in favor of both parties. 

All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, are 
doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and innovation 
creep in, factions arise, and families now and then spring up 
whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into con- 
fusion. Thus in latter days has the tranquillity of Little Britain 
been grievously disturbed and its golden simplicity of manners 
threatened with total subversion by the aspiring family of a 
retired butcher. 



242 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The family of the Lambs had long been among the most 
thriving and popular in the neighborhood : the Miss Lambs 
were the belles of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased 
when Old Lamb had made money enough to shut up shop and 
put his name on a brass plate on his door. In an evil hour, 
however, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of being a lady 
in attendance on the Lady Mayoress at her grand annual ball, 
on which occasion she wore three towering ostrich feathers on 
her head. The family never got over it; they were immedi- 
ately smitten with a passion for high life: set up a or.e-horse 
carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the errand-boy's hat, and 
have been the talk and detestation of the whole neighborhood 
ever since. They could no longer be induced to play at Pope- 
Joan or blindman's-buff ; they could endure no dances but qua- 
drilles, which nobody had ever heard of in Little Britain ; and 
they took to reading novels, talking bad French, and playing 
upon the piano. Their brother, too, who had been articled to 
an attorney, set up for a dandy and a critic, characters hitherto 
unknown in these parts, and he confounded the worthy folks 
exceedingly by talking about Kean, the opera, and the Edin- 
hurgh Review. 

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to whicb 
they neglected to invite any of their old neighbors ; but they 
had a great deal of genteel company from Theobald's Road, 
Red Lion Square, and other parts towards the west. There 
were several beaux of their brother's acquaintance from Gray's 
Inn Lane and Hatton Garden, and not less than three alder- 
men's ladies with their daughters. This was not to be for- 
gotten or forgiven. All Little Britain was in an uproar with 
the smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the 
rattling and jingling of hackney-coaches. The gossips of the 
neighborhood might be seen popping their night-caps out at 
every window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by; and 
there was a knot of virulent old cronies that kept a look-out 



LITTLE BRITAIN 243 

from a house just opposite the retired butcher's and scanned 
and criticised every one that knocked at the door. 

This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole 
neighborhood declared they would have nothing more to say to 
the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no 
engagements with her quality acquaintance, would give little 
humdrum tea-junketings to some of her old cronies, "quite," as 
she would say, " in a friendly way ; " and it is equally true that 
her invitations were always accepted, in spite of all previous 
vows to the contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be 
delighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would con- 
descend to strum an Irish melody for them on the piano ; and 
they would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's anec- 
dotes of Alderman Plunket's family, of Portsoken Ward, and 
the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched Friars; 
but then they relieved their consciences and averted the re- 
proaches of their confederates by canvassing at the next gossip- 
ing convocation everything that had passed, and pulling the 
Lambs and their rout all to pieces. 

• The only one of the family that could not be made fashion- 
able was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in spite 
of the meekness of his name, was a rough, hearty old fellow, 
with the voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a shoe-brush, 
and a broad face mottled like his own beef. It was in vain that 
the daughters always spoke of him as "the old gentleman," ad- 
dressed him as "papa" in tones of infinite softness, and endeav- 
ored to coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers and other 
gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there was no keep- 
ing down the butcher. His sturdy nature would break through 
all their glozings. He had a hearty vulgar good-humor that 
was irrepressible. His very jokes made his sensitive daughters 
shudder, and he persisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a 
morning, dining at two o'clock, and having a " bit of sausage 
with his tea." 



244 THE SKETCH BOOR 



\ 



He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of hia 
family. He found his old comrades gradually growing cold 
and civil to him, no longer laughing at his jokes, and now and 
then throwing out a fling at " some people " and a hint about 
*' quality binding." This both nettled and perplexed the hon- 
est butcher; and his wife and daughters, with the consummate 
policy of the shrewder sex, taking advantage of the circumstance, 
at length prevailed upon him to give up his afternoon's pipe 
and tankard at Wagstaff's, to sit after dinner by himself and 
take his pint of port — a liquor he detested — and to nod in his 
chair in solitary and dismal gentility. 

The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the 
streets, in French bonnets with unknown beaux, and talking 
and laughing so loud that it distressed the nerves of every good 
lady within hearing. They even went so far as to attempt pat- 
ronage, and actually induced a French dancing-master to set up 
in the neighborhood ; but the worthy folks of Little Britain 
took fire at it, and did so persecute the poor Gaul that he was 
fain to pack up fiddle and dancing-pumps and decamp with such 
precipitation that he absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings. 

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this 
fiery indignation on the part of the community was merely the 
overflowing of their zeal for good old English manners and their 
horror of innovation, and I applauded the silent contempt they 
were so vociferous in expressing for upstart pride, French fash- 
ions, and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon 
perceived the infection had taken hold, and that my neighbors, 
after condemning, were beginning to follow their example. I 
overheard my landlady importuning her husband to let their 
daughters have one quarter at French and music, and that they 
might take a few lessons in quadrille. I even saw, in the course 
of a few Sundays, no less than five French bonnets, precisely 
like those of the Miss Lambs, parading about Little Britain. 

I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die 



LITTLE BRITAIir 245 

away, that the Lambs might move out of the neighborhood, 
might die, or might run away with attorneys' apprentices, and that 
quiet and simplicity might be again restored to the community. 
But unhickily a rival power arose. An opulent oilman died, 
and left a widow with a large jointure and a family of buxom 
daughters. The young ladies had long been repining in secret 
at the parsimony of a prudent father, which kept down all their 
elegant aspirings. Their ambition, being now no longer re- 
strained, broke out into a blaze, and they openly took the field 
against the family of the butcher. It is true that the Lambs, 
having had the first start, had naturally an advantage of them 
in the fashionable career. They could speak a little bad French, 
play the piano, dance quadrilles, and had formed high acquaint- 
ances ; but the Trotters were not to be distanced. When the 
Lambs appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss 
Trotters mounted four and of twice as fine colors. If the 
Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be behind- 
hand ; and, though they might not boast of as good company, 
yet they had double the number and were twice as merry. 

The whole community has at length divided itself into fash- 
ionable fjxctions under the banners of these two families. The 
old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely 
discarded ; there is no such thing as getting up an honest country 
dance ; and on my attempting to kiss a young lady under the mis- 
tletoe last Christmas, I was indignantly repulsed, tlie Miss Lambs 
having pronounced it "shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also 
broken out as to the most fashionable part of Little Britain, 
the Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys Square, 
and the Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew's. 

Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal dis- 
sensions, like the great empire whose name it bears ; and what 
will be the result would puzzle the apothecary himself, with all 
his talent at prognostics, to determine, though I apprehend that 
it will terminate in the total downfall of genuine John BuUlsm 



246 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. Be- 
ing a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle good- 
for-nothing personage, I have been considered the only gentleman 
by profession in the place. I stand therefore in high favor with 
both parties, and have to hear all their cabinet counsels and 
mutual backbitings. As I am too civil not to agree with the 
ladies on all occasions, I have committed myself most horribly 
with both parties by abusing their opponents. I might man- 
age to reconcile this to my conscience, which is a truly accom- 
modating one, but I cannot to my apprehension : if the Lambs 
and Trotters ever come to a reconciliation and compare notes, I 
am ruined ! 

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and 
am actually looking out for some other nest in this great city 
where old English manners are still kept up, where French is 
neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spoken, and where there are 
no fashionable families of retired tradesmen. This found, I 
will, like a veteran rat, hasten away before I have an old house 
about my ears, bid a long, though a sorrowful adieu to my 
present abode, and leave the rival factions of the Lambs and 
the Trotters to divide the distracted empire of Little 
Britain. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream; 

The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 

For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. 

Garrick. 

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world 
which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling 
of something like independence and territorial consequence 
when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON 247 

his feet into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn- 
fire. Let the world without go as it may, let kingdoms rise 
or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill he is, 
for the time being, the very monarch of all he surveys. The 
armchair is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little 
parlor, some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is 
a morsel of certainty snatched from the midst of the uncer- 
tainties of life ; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on 
a cloudy day: and he who has advanced some way on the 
pilgrimage of existence knows the importance of husbanding 
even morsels and moments of enjoyment. " Shall I not take 
mine ease in mine inn 1 " thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, 
lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look 
about the little parlor of the Red Horse at Stratford-on-Avon.° 

The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing through 
my mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the 
church in which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the 
door, and a pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, 
inquired, with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I under- 
stood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. My dream 
of absolute dominion was at an end ; so abdicating my throne, 
like a prudent potentate, to avoid being deposed, and putting 
the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm as a pillow companion, 
I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakespeare, the 
Jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening mornings 
which we sometimes have in early spring, for it was about the 
middle of March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly 
given way ; the north wind had spent its last gasp ; and a 
mild air came stealing from the west, breathing the breath 
of life into Nature, and wooing every bud and flower to burst 
forth into fragrance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first 
visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born, and where, 



248 THE SKETCH BOOK « 

according to tradition, he was brought up to his father's craft 

of wool-combing. It is a small mean-looking edifice of wood ; 

and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to ' 
delight in hatching its offspring in by-corners. The walls of 

its squalid chambers are covered with names and inscriptions \ 

in every language by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and condi- 1 

tions, from the prince to the peasant, and present a simple but j 

striking instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of | 

mankind to the great poet of Nature. ■ 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady in a frosty red j 

face, lighted up by a cold blue, anxious eye, and garnished with \ 

artificial locks of flaxen hair curling from under an exceedingly | 

dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the i 
relics with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. 

There was the shattered stock of the very matchlock with which ■ 
Shakespeare shot the deer on his poaching exploits. There, 
too, was his tobacco-box, which proves that he was a rival 
smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh ; the sword also with which he 

played Hamlet ; and the identical lantern with which Friar : 
Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb. There was 
an ample supply also of Shakespeare's mulberry tree, which 

seems to have as extraordinary powers of self-multiplication as I 

the wood of the true cross, of which there is enough extant to ■ 

build a ship of the line. | 

The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shake- I 

speare's chair. It stands in a chimney-nook of a small gloomy i 

chamber just behind what was his father's shop. Here he may I 
many a time have sat when a boy, watching the slowly revolv- 
ing spit with all the longing of an urchin, or of an evening 

listening to the cronies and gossips of Stratford dealing forth ; 

churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome ; 

times of England. In this chair it is the custom of every one | 

that visits the house to sit : whether this be done with the | 

hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard I am at a i 



STRA TFORD- ON- A VON 249 

loss to say ; I merely mention the fact, and mine hostess 
privately assured me that, though built of solid oak, such was 
the fervent zeal of devotees the chair had to be new bottomed 
at least once in three years. It is worthy of notice also, in 
the history of this extraordinary chair, that it partakes some- 
thing of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the 
flying chair of the Arabian enchanter ; for, though sold some 
few years since to a northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it 
has found its way back again to the old chimney-corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever 
willing to be deceived where the deceit is pleasant and costs 
nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and 
local anecdotes of goblins and great men, and would advise all 
travellers who travel for their gratification to be the same. 
What is it to us whether these stories be true or false, so long 
as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of them and enjoy 
all the charm of the reality? There is nothing like resolute 
good-humored credulity in these matters, and on this occa- 
sion I went even so ftir as willingly to believe the claims of 
inine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, unluckily 
for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own composi- 
tion, which set all belief in her own consanguinity at defiance. 

From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few paces brought me 
to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish 
church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but 
richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of the Avon on an 
embowered point, and separated by adjoining gardens from 
the suburbs of the town. Its situation is quiet and retired ; 
the river runs murmuring at the foot of the churchyard, and the 
elms which grow upon its banks droop their branches into its 
clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs of which are 
curiously interlaced, so as to form in summer an arched way of 
foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard to the church -porch. 
The graves are overgrown with grass ; the gray tombstones 



250 THE SKETCH BOOK j 

some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are half covered with i 
moss, which has likewise tinted the reverend old building. ;i 
Small birds have built their nests among the cornices and' 
fissures of the walls, and keep up a continual flutter and chirp- ': 
ing ; and rooks are sailing and cawing about its lofty gray • 
spire. j 

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed ' 
sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the key ! 
of the church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for : 
eighty years, and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous 
man, with the trivial exception that he had nearly lost the j 
use of his legs for a few years past. His dwelling was a cot- i 
tage looking out upon the Avon and its bordering meadows, ; 
and was a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort which ■ 
pervade the humblest dwellings in this country. A low white- 
washed room, with a stone floor carefully scrubbed, served for , 
parlor, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes ' 
glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed 
and polished, lay the family Bible and prayer-book, and the 
drawer contained the family library, composed of about half a | 
score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that im- | 
portant article of cottage furniture, ticked on the opposite side ; 
of the room, with a bright warming-pan hanging on one side of i 
it, and the old man's horn -handled Sunday cane on the other. ! 
The fireplace, as usual, was wide and deep enough to admit a 
gossip knot Avithin its jambs. In one corner sat the old man's 
grand-daughter sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, and in the 
opposite corner was a superannuated crony whom he addressed 
by the name of John Ange, and who, I found, had been his 
companion from childhood. They had played together in in- 
fancy ; they had worked together in manhood ; they were now 
tottering about and gossiping away the evening of life ; and 
in a short time they will probably be buried together in the 
neighboring churchyard. It is not often that we see two streams 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 251 

of existence running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side ; 
it is only in such quiet " bosom scenes " of life that they are to 
be met with. 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the 
bard from these ancient chroniclers, but they had nothing new 
to impart. The long interval during which Shakespeare's writ- 
ings lay in comparative neglect has spread its shadow over his 
history, and it is his good or evil lot that scarcely anything 
remains to his biographers but a scanty handful of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as car- 
penters on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford Jubilee, 
and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who 
superintended the arrangements, and who, according to the 
sexton, was "a short punch man, very lively and bustling." 
John Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shakespeare's 
mulberry tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale ; 
no doubt a sovereign quickener of literary conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very 
dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakespeare 
house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her 
valuable and inexhaustible collection of relics, particularly her 
remains of the mulberry tree ; and the old sexton even expressed 
a doubt as to Shakespeare having been born in her house. I 
soon discovered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil 
eye, as a rival to the poet's tomb, the latter having compara- 
tively but few visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at the 
very outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge 
into different channels even at the fountain-head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and 
entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with carved 
doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the archi- 
tecture and embellishments superior to those of most country 
churches. There are several ancient monuments of nobility and 
gentry, over some of which hang funeral escutcheons and banners 



252 THE SKETCH BOOK 

dropping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare 
is in the chancel. The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall 
elms wave before the pointed windows, and the Avon, which 
runs at a short distance from the walls, keeps up a low per- 
petual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the bard 
is buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have 
been written by himself, and which have in them something 
extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they show that 
solicitude about the quiet of the grave which seems natural to 
fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds : — 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare 
To dig the dust enclosed here. 
Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of 
Shakespeare, put up shortly after his death and considered as a 
resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely- 
arched forehead; and I thought I could read in it clear indica- 
tions of that cheerful, social disposition by which he was as 
much characterized among his contemporaries as by the vastness 
of his genius. The inscription mentions his age at the time of his 
decease, fifty-three years — an untimely death for the world, for 
what fruit might not have been expected from the golden autumn 
of such a mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vicissitudes 
of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of popular and royal 
favor? 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its 
efi'ect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the 
bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at 
one time contemplated. A few years since also, as some laborers 
were digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so 
as to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, through which 
one might have reached into his grave. No one, however, pre- 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 253 

sumed to meddle with his remains so awfully guarded by a 
malediction ; and lest any of the idle or the curious or any col- 
lector of relics should be tempted to commit depredations, the 
old sexton kept watch over the place for two days, until the 
vault was finished and the aperture closed again. He told me 
that he had made bold to look in at the hole, but could see 
neither coffin nor bones — nothing but dust. It was something, 
I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakespeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite daughter, 
Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, also, 
is a full-length efiigy of his old friend John Combe, of usurious 
memory, on whom he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. 
There are other monuments around, but the mind refuses to 
dwell on anything that is not connected with Shakespeare. His 
idea pervades the place ; the whole pile seems but as his mauso- 
leum. The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, 
here indulge in perfect confidence : other traces of him may be 
false or dubious, but here is palpable evidence and absolute cer- 
tainty. As I trod the sounding pavement there was something 
intense and thrilling in the idea that in very truth the remains 
of Shakespeare were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a 
long time before I could prevail upon myself to leave the place ; 
and as I passed through the churchyard I plucked a branch 
from one of the yew trees, the only relic that I have brought 
from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, 
but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys at 
Charlecot,° and to ramble through the park where Shakespeare, 
in company with some of the roisterers of Stratford, committed 
his youthful offence of deer-stealing. In this hare-brained ex- 
ploit we are told that he was taken prisoner and carried to the 
keeper's lodge, where he remained all night in doleful captivity. 
When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy his treat- 
ment must have been galling and humiliating ; for it so wrought 



254 THE SKETCH BOOK 

upon his spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade which was 
affixed to the park gate at Charlecot. 

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so in- 
censed him that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put the 
severity of the laws in force against the rhyming deer-stalker. 
Shakespeare did not wait to brave the united puissance of a 
knight of the shire and a country attorney. He forthwith 
abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon and his paternal 
trade; wandered away to London; became a hanger-on to the 
theatres ; then an actor ; and finally wrote for the stage ; and 
thus, through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford 
lost an indifferent wool-comber and the world gained an immor- 
tal poet. He retained, however, for a long time, a sense of the 
harsh treatment of the lord of Charlecot, and revenged himself 
in his writings, but in the sportive way of a good-natured mind. 
Sir Thomas is said to be the original of Justice Shallow,^ and 
the satire is slyly fixed up'on him by the Justice's armorial 
bearings, which, like those of the knight, had white luces in 
the quarterings. 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers to soften 
and explain away this early transgression of the poet; but I 
look upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural to his 
situation and turn of mind. Shakespeare, when young, had 
doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, undisci- 
plined, and undirected genius. The poetic temperament has 
naturally something in it of the vagabond. When left to itself 
it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in everything eccentric 
and licentious. It is often a turn up of a die, in the gambling 
freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall turn out a great 
rogue or a great poet ; and had not Shakespeare's mind fortu- 
nately taken a literary bias, he might have as daringly tran- 
scended all civil as he has all dramatic laws. 

I have little doubt that in early life, when running like an 
unbroken colt about the neighborhood of Stratford, he was to 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON 255 

De found in the company of all kinds of odd anomalous charac- 
ters, that he associated with all the madcaps of the place, and 
was one of those unlucky urchins at mention of whom old men 
shake their heads and predict that they will one day come to 
the gallows. To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park 
was doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, and struck his 
eager, and as yet untamed, imagination as something delightfully 
adventurous. 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still 
remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly 
interesting from being connected with this whimsical but event- 
ful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the 
house stood at little more than three miles' distance from Strat- 
ford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might stroll 
leisurely through some of those scenes from which Shakespeare 
must have derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. 

The country w^as yet naked and leafless, but English scenery 
is always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of 
the weather was surprising in its quickening effects upon the 
landscape. It was inspiring and animating to witness this 
first awakening of spring ; to feel its warm breath stealing over 
the senses; to see the moist mellow earth beginning to put 
forth the green sprout and the tender blade, and the trees and 
shrubs, in their reviving tints and bursting buds, giving the 
promise of returning foliage and flower. The cold snow-drop, 
that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen with 
its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens before the cottages. 
The bleating of the new-dropt lambs was faintly heard from the 
fields. The sparrow twittered about the thatched eaves and bud- 
ding hedges ; the robin threw a livelier note into his late querulous 
wintry strain; and the lark, springing up from the reeking 
bosom of the meadow, towered away into the bright fleecy 
cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody. As I watched the 
Uttle songster mounting up higher and higher, until his body 



256 THE SKETCH BOOK 

was a mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the 
ear was still filled with his music, it called to mind Shake* 
speare's exquisite little song in Cymbeline : — 

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chaliced flowers that lies. 

And winking rnary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes ; 
With everything that pretty bin. 

My lady sweet arise ! 

Indeed, the whole country about here is poetic ground : 
everything is associated with tlie idea of Shakespeare. Every 
old cottage that I saw I fancied into some resort of his boyhood, 
where he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and 
manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild superstitions 
which he has woven like witchcraft into his dramas. For 
in his time, we are told, it was a popular amusement in winter 
evenings " to sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of errant 
knights, queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, 
cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars." 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, which 
made a variety of the most fancy doublings and windings through 
a wide and fertile valley — sometimes glittering from among 
willows which fringed its borders ; sometimes disappearing 
among groves or beneath green banks ; and sometimes rambling 
out into full view and making an azure sweep round a slope of 
meadow-land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the 
Vale of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills 
seems to be its boundary, whilst all the soft intervening land- 
scape lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of the 
Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned oflf 
into a footpath, which led along the borders of fields and 



\ 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON' 257 

under hedgerows to a private gate of the park ; there was a 
stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian, there being 
a public right of way through the grounds. I delight in these 
hospitable estates, in which every one has a kind of property — 
at least as far as the footpath is concerned. It in some measure 
reconciles a poor man to his lot, and, what is more, to the better 
lot of his neighbor, thus to have parks and pleasure-grounds 
thrown open for his recreation. He breathes the pure air as 
freely and lolls as luxuriously under the shade as the lord of the 
soil ; and if he has not the privilege of calling all that he sees 
his own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble of paying for 
it and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and 
elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The 
wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and the rooks 
cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree-tops. The eye 
ranged through a long lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt 
the view but a distant statue and a vagrant deer stalking like a 
shadow across the opening. 

■ There is something about these stately old avenues that has 
the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the pretended 
similarity of form, but from their bearing the evidence of long 
duration, and of having had their origin in a period of time with 
whicli we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken 
also the long-settled dignity and proudly-concentrated indepen- 
dence of an ancient family : and I have heard a worthy but 
aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking of the sumptuous 
palaces of modern gentry, that " money could do much with 
stone and mortar, but thank heaven ! there was no such thing 
as suddenly building up an avenue of oaks." 

It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, 
and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of Full- 
broke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that soncie 
of Shakespeare's commentators have supposed he derived his 
s 



258 THE SKETCH BOOK ' | 

noble forest meditations of Jaques and the enchanting wood* ] 
land pictures in As You Like It. It is in lonely wanderings \ 
through such scenes that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts \ 
of inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty and \ 
majesty of Nature. The imagination kindles into reverie and ; 
rapture, vague but exquisite images and ideas keep breaking upon : 
it, and we revel in a mute and almost incommunicable luxury \ 
of thought. It was in some such mood, and perhaps under one ] 
of those very trees before me, which threw their broad shades ! 
over the grassy banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that ' 
the poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that little song j 
which breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary : — I 

Unto the greenwood tree, '-, 

Who loves to lie with me .\ 

And tune his merry throat j 

Unto the sweet bird's note, 

Come hither, come hither, come hither. i 

Here shall he see '\ 

No enemy, i 

But winter and rough weather. \ 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large building ' 
of brick with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of Queen \ 
Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of her reign. ■ 
The exterior remains very nearly in its original state, and may 
be considered a fair specimen of the residence of a wealthy ; 
country gentleman of those days. A great gateway opens from i 
the park into a kind of courtyard in front of the house, orna- j 
mented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gate- 
way is in imitation of the ancient barbacan, being a kind of ; 
outpost and flanked by towers, though evidently for mere orna- i 
ment, instead of defence. The front of the house is completely j 
in the old style with stone-shafted casements, a great bow-window ' 
of heavy stone-work, and a portal with armorial bearings over it ! 
carved in stone. At each corner of the building is an octagon ] 
tower surmounted by a gilt ball and weather-cock. \ 

i 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 259 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend just 
at the foot of a gently-sloping bank which sweeps down from 
the rear of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding or 
reposing upon its borders, and swans were sailing majestically 
upon its bosom. As I contemplated the venerable old mansion 
I called to mind Falstaff 's encomium on Justice Shallow's abode, 
and the affected indifference and real vanity of the latter ; — 

"Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
"Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all. Sir 
John: — marry, good air." 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion in 
the days of Shakespeare, it had now an air of stillness and soli- 
tude. The great iron gateway that opened into the courtyard 
was locked ; there was no show of servants bustling about the 
place ; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no longer 
harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. The only sign of 
domestic life that I met with was a white cat stealing with 
wary look and stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some 
nefarious expedition. I must not omit to mention the carcass 
of a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against the barn- 
wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly abhor- 
rence of poachers and maintain that rigorous exercise of territorial 
power which was so strenuously manifested in the case of the 
bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length found my 
way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to 
the mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old 
housekeeper, who, with the . civility and communicativeness of 
her order, showed me the interior of the house. The greater 
part has undergone alterations and been adapted to modern 
tastes and modes of living : there is a fine old oaken staircase, 
and the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor- 
house, still retains much of the appearance it must have had in 



260 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the days of Shakespeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty, and 
at one end is a gallery in which stands an organ. The weapons 
and trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned the hall of a 
country gentleman, have made way for family portraits. There 
is a wide, hospitable fireplace, calculated for an ample old-fash- 
ioned wood fire, formerly the rallying-place of winter festivity. 
On the opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow-window, 
with stone shafts, which looks out upon the courtyard. Here 
are emblazoned in stained glass the armorial bearings of the 
Lucy family for many generations, some being dated in 1558. 
I was delighted to observe in the quarterings the three white 
luces by which the character of Sir Thomas was first identified 
with that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the first 
scene of the Merry Wives of Windsor, where the justice is in 
a rage with Falstaif for having "beaten his men, killed his 
deer, and broken into his lodge." The poet had no doubt the 
offences of himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and 
we may suppose the family pride and vindictive threats of the 
puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous indignation 
of Sir Thomas : — 

"Shalloiv. Sir Hugh, persuade me not : I will make a Star-Chamber 
matter of it ; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Sir 
Robert Shallow, Esq. 

Slender. In the county of Gioster, justice of peace and coram. 

Shalloio. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 

Slender. Ay, and ratolorum too, and a gentleman born, master par- 
son ; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or 
obligation, Armigero. 

Shalloio. Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these three hundred 
years. 

Slender. All his successors gone before him have done't, and all his 
ancestors that come after him may ; they may give the dozen white luces 
in their coat 

Shalloio. The council shall hear it ; it is a riot. 

Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is no fear of 
Got in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear of 
Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that. 

Shallow. Ha ! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end 
it!" 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 261 

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait, by Sir 
Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the 
time of Charles the Second : the old housekeeper shook her 
head as she pointed to the picture, and informed me that this 
lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away 
a great portion of the family estate, among which was that part 
of the park where Shakespeare and his comrades had killed the 
deer. The lands thus lost had not been entirely regained by 
the family even at the present day. It is but justice to this 
recreant dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine hand 
and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was a great 
painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir Thomas 
Lucy and his family who inhabited the hall in the latter part 
of Shakespeare's lifetime. I at first thought that it was the 
vindictive knight himself, but the housekeeper assured me that 
it was his son ; the only likeness extant of the former being an 
efiigy upon his tomb in the church of the neighboring hamlet 
of Charlecot. The picture gives a lively idea of the costume 
and manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and 
doublet, white shoes with rose's in them, and has a peaked yellow, 
or, as Master Slender would say, " a cane-colored beard." His 
lady is seated on the opposite side of the picture in wide ruff 
and long stomacher, and the children have a most venerable 
stiffness and formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels are 
mingled in the family group ; a hawk is seated on his perch 
in the foreground, and one of the children holds a bow, all 
intimating the knight's skill in hunting, hawking, and archery, 
so indispensable to an accomplished gentleman in those 
days. 

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had 
disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow- 
chair of carved oak in which the country squire of former days 
was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over his rural domains^ 



262 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and in which it might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas 
sat enthroned in awful state when the recreant Shakespeare 
was brought before him. As I like to deck out pictures for 
my own entertainment, I pleased myself with the idea that this 
very hall had been the scene of the unlucky bard's examination 
on the morning after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to 
m3^self the rural potentate surrounded by his body-guard of 
butler, pages, and blue-coated serving-men with their badges, 
while the luckless culprit was brought in, forlorn and chopfallen, 
in the custody of gamekeepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and 
followed by a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright 
faces of curious housemaids peeping from the half-opened doors, 
while from the gallery the fair daughters of the knight leaned 
gracefully forward, eyeing the youthful prisoner with that pity 
"that dwells in womanhood," Who would have thought that 
this poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief authority of a 
country squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become 
the delight of princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, the 
dictator to the human mind, and was to confer immortality on 
his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon 1 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and j 
I felt inclined to visit the orchard and harbor where the justice 
treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence " to a last j'^ear's 
pippin of his own grafting, with a dish of caraways ; " but I | 
had already spent so much of the day in my ramblings that I 
was obliged to give up any further investigations. When about 
to take my leave I was gratified by the civil entreaties of the 
housekeeper and butler that I would take some refreshment — 
an instance of good old hospitality which, I grieve to say, we \ 
castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I make no li 
doubt it is a virtue which the present representative of the ) 
Lucys inherits from his ancestors; for Shakespeare, even in his I 
caricature, makes Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, 
as witness his pressing instances to Falstaff : — \ 



STRA TFORD-ON-A VON 263 

*' By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night I will not 

excuse you ; you shall iu)t be excused ; excuses shall not be admitted ; 

there is no excuse shall serve ; you shall not be excused Some 

pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legged hens ; a joint of mutton ; and 
any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William Cook." 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind 
had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes 
and characters connected with it that I seemed to be actually 
living among them. Everything brought them as it were before 
my eyes, and as the door of the dining-room opened I almost 
expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering 
forth his favorite ditty: — 

** 'Tis merry in hall, when beards Avag all. 
And welcome merry Shrove-tide ! " 

On returning to my inn I could not but reflect on the singular 
gift of the poet, to be able thus to spread the magic of his 
mind over the very face of Nature, to give to things and places 
a charm and character not their own, and to turn this " working- 
day world" into a perfect fairy-land. He is indeed the true 
enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon 
the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard influence of 
Shakespeare I had been walking all day in a complete delusion. 
I had surveyed the landscape through the prism of poetry, which 
tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow. I had been 
Rurroundcd with fancied beings, with mere airy nothings conjured 
up by poetic power, yet which, to me, had all the charm of 
reality. I had heard Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak ; had 
beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring through 
the woodlands ; and, above all, had been once more present in 
spirit with fat Jack Falstaft* and his contemporaries, from the 
august Justice Shallow down to the gentle Master Slender and 
the sweet Anne Page, Ten thousand honors and blessings on 



264 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of life with inno- 
cent illusions, who has spread exquisite and unbought pleasures 
in my chequered path, and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely 
hour with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social life ! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused 
to contemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried, 
and could not but exult in the malediction which has kept his 
ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What 
honor could his name have derived from being mingled in dusty 
companionship with the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal 
eulogiums of a titled multitude 1 What would a crowded cor- 
ner in Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this rev- 
erend pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his 
sole mausoleum ! The solicitude about the grave may be but 
the offspring of an over- wrought sensibility ; but human nature 
is made up of foibles and prejudices, and its best and tenderest 
affections are mingled with these factitious feelings. He who 
has sought renown about the world, and has reaped a full har- 
vest of worldly favor, will find, after all, that there is no love, 
no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which 
springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks to be 
gathered in peace and honor among his kindred and his early 
friends. And when the weary heart and failing head begin to 
warn him that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as 
fondly as does the infant to the mother's arms to sink to sleep 
in the bosom of the scene of his childhood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard 
when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he 
cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have 
foreseen that before many years he should return to it covered 
with renown ; that his name should become the boast and glory 
of his native place ; that his ashes should be religiously guarded 
as its most precious treasure ; and that its lessening spire, on 
which his eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should on9 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 265 

day become the beacon towering amidst the gentle landscape to 
guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb 1 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 

'* I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin hun- 
gry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and naked, and 
he clothed him not." 

Speech of an Indian Chief. 

There is something in the character and habits of the North 
American savage, taken in connection with the scenery over 
which he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes, boundless forests, 
majestic rivers, and trackless plains, that is, to my mind, won- 
derfully striking and sublime. He is formed for the wilder- 
ness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, 
simple, and enduring, fitted to grapple with difficulties and to 
support privations. There seems but little soil in his heart for 
the support of the kindly virtues ; and yet, if we would but 
take the trouble to penetrate through that proud stoicism and 
habitual taciturnity which lock up his character from casual ob- 
servation, we should find him linked to his fellow-man of civil- 
ized life by more of those sympathies and aff'ections than are 
usually ascribed to him. 

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of America 
in the early periods of colonization to be doubly wronged by the 
white men. They have been dispossessed of their hereditary 
possessions by mercenary and frequently wanton warfare, and 
their characters have been traduced by bigoted and interested 
writers. The colonists often treated them like beasts of the for- 
est, and the author has endeavored to justify him in his outrages. 
The former found it easier to exterminate than to civilize ; the 
latter to vilify than to discriminate. The appellations of savage 
and pagan were deemed sufficient to sanction the hostilities of 



266 THE SKETCH BOOK 

both ; and thus the poor wanderers of the forest were persecuted 
and defamed, not because they were guilty, but because they 

were ignorant. ■: 

•The rights of the savage have seldom been properly appreci- i 

ated or respected by the white man. In peace he has too often ; 

been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war he has been regarded as \ 

a ferocious animal whose life or death was a question of mere \ 

precaution and convenience. Man is cruelly wasteful of life j 

when his own safety is endangered and he is sheltered by impu- | 

nity, and little mercy is to be expected from him when he feels \ 

the sting of the reptile and is conscious of the power to destroy. \ 

The same prejudices, which were indulged thus early, exist : 

in common circulation at the present day. Certain learned so- ^ 

cieties have, it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored to ; 

investigate and record the real characters and manners of the \ 

Indian tribes ; the American government, too, has wisely and i 

humanely exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and forbearing \ 

spirit towards them and to protect them from fraud and injus- \ 

tice. The current opinion of the Indian character, however, : 

is too apt to be formed from the miserable hordes which infest i 
the frontiers and hang on the skirts of the settlements. These 

are too commonly composed of degenerate beings, corrupted and : 

enfeebled by the vices of society, without being benefited by its ; 

civilization. That proud independence which formed the main \ 

pillar of savage virtue has been shaken down, and the whole i 

moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spirits are humiliated and de- I 

based by a sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed j 

and daunted by the superior knowledge and power of their en- j 

lightened neighbors. Society has advanced upon them like one '\ 

of those withering airs that will sometimes breed desolation over | 

a whole region of fertility. It has enervated their strength, ' 

multiplied their diseases, and superinduced upon their original | 

barbarity the low vices of artificial life. It has given them ! 

a thousand superfluous wants, whilst it has diminished their \ 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 267 

means of mere existence. It has driven before it the animals 
of the chase, who fly from the sound of the axe and the smoke 
of the settlement and seek refuge in the depths of remoter 
forests and yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we too often find 
the Indians on our frontiers to be the mere wrecks and remnants 
of once powerful tribes, who have lingered in the vicinity of the 
settlements and sunk into precarious and vagabond existence. 
Poverty, repining and hopeless poverty, a canker of the mind 
unknown in savage life, corrodes their spirits and blights every 
free and noble quality of their natures. They become drunken, 
indolent, feeble, thievish, and pusillanimous. They loiter like 
vagrants about the settlements, among spacious dwellings re- 
plete with elaborate comforts, which only render them sensible 
of the comparative wretchedness of their own condition. Lux- 
ury spreads its ample board before their eyes, but they are ex- 
cluded from the banquet. Plenty revels over the fields, but 
they are starving in the midst of its abundance ; the whole wil- 
derness has blossomed into a garden, but they feel as reptiles 
that infest it. 

How different was their state while yet the undisputed lords 
of the soil ! Their wants were few and the means of gratifica- 
tion within their reach. They saw every one round them shar- 
ing the same lot, enduring the same hardships, feeding on the 
same aliments, arrayed in the same rude garments. No roof 
then rose but was open to the homeless stranger; no smoke 
cu'led among the trees but he was welcome to sit down by 
its fire and join the hunter in his repast. " For," says an old 
historian of New England, " their life is so void of care, and they 
are so loving also, that they make use of those things they 
enjoy as common goods, and are therein so compassionate that 
rather than one should starve through want, they would starve 
all ; thus they pass their time merrily, not regarding our pomp, 
but are better content with their own, which some men esteem 
so meanly of." Such were the Indians whilst in the pride and 



268 THE SKETCH BOOK > 

energy of their primitive natures : they resembled those wild 
plants which thrive best in the shades of the forest, but shrink 
from the hand of cultivation and perish beneath the influence , 
of the sun. i 

In discussing the savage character writers have been too prone I 
to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exaggeration, in- \ 
stead of the candid temper of true philosophy. They have not - 
sufficiently considered the peculiar circumstances in which the 
Indians have been placed, and the peculiar principles under 
which they have been educated. No being acts more rigidly 
from rule than the Indian. His whole conduct is regulated , 
according to some general maxims early implanted in his mind, j 
The moral laws that govern him are, to be sure, but few ; but ■ 
then he conforms to them all ; the white man abounds in laws ; 
of religion, morals, and manners, but how many does he violate ! \ 

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is their [ 
disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wantonness with 
which, in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to ^ 
hostilities. The intercourse of the white men with the Indians, 
however, is too apt to be cold, distrustful, oppressive, and in- I 
suiting. They seldom treat them with that confidence and ! 
frankness which are indispensable to real friendship, nor is suf- ; 
ficient caution observed not to offend against those feelings of ' 
pride or superstition which often prompt the Indian to hostility i 
quicker than mere considerations of interest. The solitary sav- : 
age feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities are not diff'used i 
over so wide a surface as those of the white man, but they run 
in steadier and deeper channels. His pride, his affections, 
his superstitions, are all directed towards fewer objects, but , 
the wounds inflicted on them are proportionably severe, and \ 
furnish motives of hostility which we cannot sufficiently appre- , 
ciate. Where a community is also limited in number, and \ 
forms one great patriarchal family, as in an Indian tribe, ^ 
the injury of an individual is the injury of the whole, and the : 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 2G9 

sentiment of vengeance is almost instantaneously diffused. 
One council-fire is sufficient for the discussion and arrangement 
of a plan of hostilities. Here all the fighting-men and sages 
assemble. Eloquence and superstition combine to inflame the 
minds of the warriors. The orator awakens their martial ardor, 
and they are wrought up to a kind of religious desperation by 
the visions of the prophet and the dreamer. 

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising 
from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant in an 
old record of the early settlement of Massachusetts. The planters 
of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the dead at Passona- 
gessit, and had plundered the grave of the sachem's mother of 
some skins with which it had been decorated. The Indians are 
remarkable for the reverence which they entertain for the sepul- 
chres of their kindred. Tribes that have passed generations 
exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, when by chance they 
have been travelling in the vicinity, have been known to turn 
aside from the highway, and, guided by wonderfully accurate 
tradition, have crossed the country for miles to some tumulus, 
buried perhaps in woods, where the bones of their tribe were 
anciently deposited, and there have passed hours in silent medi- 
tation. Influenced by this sublime and holy feeling, the sachem 
whose mother's tomb had been violated gathered his men to- 
gether, and addressed them in the following beautifully simple 
and pathetic harangue — a curious specimen of Indian eloquence 
and an affecting instance of filial piety in a savage : — 

" When last the glorious light of all the sky was underneath 
this globe and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as my custom 
is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed methought 
I saw a vision, at which my spirit was much troubled ; and 
trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, ' Behold, 
ray son, whom I have cherished, see the breasts that gave thee 
suck, the hands that lapped thee warm and fed thee oft. 
Canst thou forget to take revenge of those wild people whc 



270 THE SKETCH BOOK 

I 
have defaced my monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining ; 
our antiquities and honorable customs 1 See, now, the sachem's ' 
grave lies like the common people, defaced by an ignoble race. \ 
Thy mother doth complain and implores thy aid against this | 
thievish people who have newly intruded on our land. If this I 
be suffered, I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' | 
This said, the spirit vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able ; 
scarce to speak, began to get some strength and recollect my 
spirits that were fled, and determined to demand your counsel j 
and assistance." . 

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to ^ 
show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been 
attributed to caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep and , 
generous motives, which our inattention to Indian character and | 
customs prevents our properly appreciating. | 

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is their j 
barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly in j 
policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, though sometimes i 
called nations, were never so formidable in their numbers but : 
that the loss of several warriors was sensibly felt ; this was par- ' 
ticularly the case when they had been frequently engaged in \ 
warfare ; and many an instance occurs in Indian history where \ 
a tribe that had long been formidable to its neighbors has been ^ 
broken up and driven away by the capture and massacre of its j 
principal fighting-men. There was a strong temptation, there- j 
fore, to the victor to be merciless, not so much to gratify any ] 
cruel revenge, as to provide for future security. The Indians 
had also the superstitious belief, frequent among barbarous 
nations and prevalent also among the ancients, that the manes 
of their friends who had fallen in battle were soothed by the 
blood of the captives. The prisoners, however, who are not; 
thus sacrificed are adopted into their families in the place of 
the slain, and are treated with the confidence and aff'ection of 
relatives and friends; nay, so hospitable and tender is their 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 271 

entertainment that when the alternative is offered them they 
will often prefer to remain with their adopted brethren rather 
than return to the home and the friends of their youth. 

The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has been 
heightened since the colonization of the whites. What was 
formerly a compliance with policy and superstition has been 
exasperated into a gratification of vengeance. They cannot but 
be sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their ancient 
dominion, the cause of their degradation, and the gradual 
destroyers of their race. They go forth to battle smarting with 
injuries and indignities which they have individually suffered, 
and they are driven to madness and despair by the wide-spread- 
ing desolation and the overwhelming ruin of European warfare. 
The whites have too frequently set them an example of violence 
by burning their villages and laying waste their slender means 
of subsistence, and yet they wonder that savages do not show 
moderation and magnanimity towards those who have left 
them nothing but mere existence and wretchedness. 

V/e stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treacherous, 
because they use stratagem in warfare in preference to open 
force ; but in this they are fully justified by their rude code of 
honor. They are early taught that stratagem is praiseworthy ; 
the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence, and 
take every advantage of his foe : he triumphs in the superior 
craft and sagacity by which \\q has been enabled to surprise 
and destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is naturally more prone to 
subtilty than open valor, owing to his physical weakness in 
comparison with other animals. They are endowed with natural 
weapons of defence, with horns, with tusks, with hoofs and talons ; 
but man has to depend on his superior sagacity. In all his en- 
counters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to strata- 
gem ; and when he perversely turns his hostility against his 
fellow-man, he at first continues the same subtle mode of 
warfare. 



272 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to our 
enemy with the least harm to ourselves ; and this of course is 
to be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous courage which 
induces us to despise the suggestions of prudence and to rush in 
the face of certain danger is the offspring of society and pro- 
duced by education. It is honorable, because it is in fact the 
triumph of lofty sentiment over an instinctive repugnance to 
pain, and over those yearnings after personal ease and security 
which society has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by 
pride and the fear of shame ; and tlius the dread of real evil is 
overcome by the superior dread of an evil which exists but in the 
imagination. It has been cherished and stimulated also by 
various means. It has been the theme of spirit-stirring song 
and chivalrous story. The poet and minstrel have delighted to 
shed round it the splendors of fiction, and even the historian 
has forgotten the sober gravity of narration and broken 
forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody in its praise. Triumphs 
and gorgeous pageants have been its reward : monuments, 
on which art has exhausted its skill and opulence its treas- 
ures, have been erected to perpetuate a nation's gratitude and 
admiration. Thus artificially excited, courage has risen to an 
extraordinary and factitious degree of heroism, and, arrayed 
in all the glorious " pomp and circumstance of war," this turbu- 
lent quality has even been able to eclipse many of those quiet 
but invaluable virtues which silently ennoble the human charac- 
ter and swell the tide of human happiness. 

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of danger 
and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhibition of it. 
He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril and 
adventure are congenial to his nature, or rather seem necessary 
to arouse his faculties and to give an interest to his existence. 
Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose mode of warfare is by am- 
bush and surprisal, he is always prepared for fight and lives 
with his weapons in his bands. As the ship careers in fearful 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 273 

singleness through the solitudes of ocean, as the bird mingles 
among clouds and storms, and wings its way, a mere speck, 
across the pathless fields of air, so the Indian holds his course, 
silent, solitary, but undaunted, through the boundless bosom of 
the wilderness. His expeditions may vie in distance and 
danger with the pilgrimage of the devotee or the crusade of the 
knight-errant. He traverses vast forests exposed to the hazards 
of lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, and pining famine. 
Stormy lakes, those great inland seas, are no obstacles to his 
wanderings : in his light canoe of bark he sports like a feather 
on their waves, and darts with the swiftness of an arrow down 
the roaring rapids of the rivers. His very subsistence is snatched 
from the midst of toil and peril. He gains his food by the 
hardsliips and dangers of the chase : he wraps himself in the 
spoils of the bear, the panther, and the bufialo, and sleeps 
among the thunders of the cataract. 

No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian 
in his lofty contempt of death and the fortitude with which he 
sustains his crudest affliction. Indeed, we here behold him 
rising superior to the white man in consequence of his peculiar 
education. The latter rushes to glorious death at the cannon's 
mouth ; the former calmly contemplates its approach, and 
triumphantly endures it amidst the varied torments of surround- 
ing foes and the protracted agonies of fire. He even takes a 
pride in taunting his persecutors and provoking their ingenuity 
of torture ; and as the devouring flames prey on his very vitals 
and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his last song 
of triumph, breathing the defiance of an unconquered heart and 
invoking the spirits of his fathers to witness that he dies with- 
out a groan. 

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early historians 
have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate natives, 
some bright gleams occasionally break through which throw 
a degree of melancholy lustre on their memories. Facts are 



274 THE SKETCH BOOK 

occasionally to be met with in the rude annals of the eastern 
provinces which, though recorded with the coloring of prejudice 
and bigotry, yet speak for themselves, and will be dwelt on 
with applause and sympathy when prejudice shall have passed 
away. 

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New 
England there is a touching account of the desolation carried 
into the tribes of the Pequod Indians. ° Humanity shrinks 
from the cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In 
one place we read of the surprisal of an Indian fort in the 
night, when the wigwams were wrapped in flames and the 
miserable inhabitants shot down and slain in attempting to 
escape, " all being despatched and ended in the course of an 
hour." After a series of similar transactions "our soldiers," 
as the historian piously observes, "being resolved by God's 
assistance to make a final destruction of them," the unhappy 
savages being hunted from their homes and fortresses and pur- 
sued with fire and sword, a scanty but gallant band, the sad 
remnant of the Pequod warriors, with their wives and children, 
took refuge in a swamp. 

Burning with indignation and rendered sullen by despair, 
with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their tribe, 
and spirits galled and sore at tlie fancied ignominy of their 
defeat, they refused to ask their lives at the hands of an insult- 
ing foe, and preferred death to submission. 

As the night drew on they were surrounded in their dismal 
retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus situated, 
their enemy "pHed them with shot all the time, by which 
means many were killed and buried in the mire." In the dark- 
ness and fog that preceded the dawn of day some few broke 
through the besiegers and escaped into the woods ; " the rest 
were left to the conquerors, of which many were killed in the 
swamp, like sullen dogs who would rather, in their self-willed- 
ness and madness, sit still and be shot through or cut to 



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 275 

pieces" than implore for mercy. When the day broke upon 
this handful of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the soldiers, we 
are told, entering the swamp, " saw several heaps of them 
sitting close together, upon whom they discharged their pieces, 
laden with ten or twelve pistol bullets at a time, putting the 
muzzles of the pieces under the boughs, within a few yards of 
them ; so as, besides those that were found dead, many more 
were killed and sunk into the mire, and never were minded 
more by friend or foe." 

Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale without admir- 
ing the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the loftiness of 
spirit that seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught heroes 
and to raise them above the instinctive feelings of human 
nature ? When the Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, they 
found the senators clothed in their robes and seated with stern 
tranquillity in their curule chairs ; in this manner they suffered 
death without resistance or even supplication. Such conduct 
was in them applauded as noble and magnanimous; in the 
hapless Indian it was reviled as obstinate and sullen. How 
truly are we the dupes of show and circumstance ! How differ- 
ent is virtue clothed in purple and enthroned in state, from 
virtue naked and destitute and perishing obscurely in a wilder- 
ness ! 

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The east- 
ern tribes have long since disappeared ; the forests that shel- 
tered them have been laid low, and scarce any traces remain 
of them in the thickly-settled States of New England, except- 
ing here and there the Indian name of a village or a stream. 
And such must, sooner or later, be the fate of those other 
tribes which skirt the frontiers, and have occasionally been 
inveigled from their forests to mingle in the wars of white men. 
In a little while, and they will go the way that their brethren 
have gone before. The few hordes which still linger about the 
shores of Huron and Superior and the tributary streams of the 



276 THE SKETCH BOOK 

Mississippi will share the fate of those tribes that once spread 
over Massachusetts and Connecticut and lorded it along the 
proud banks of the Hudson, of that gigantic race said to have 
existed on the borders of the Susquehanna, and of those various 
nations that flourished about the Potomac and the Rappahan- 
nock and that peopled the forests of the vast valley of Shen- 
andoah. They will vanish like a vapor from the face of the 
earth ; their very history will be lost in forgetfulness ; and 
"the places that now know them will know them no more 
forever." Or if, perchance, some dubious memorial of them 
should survive, it may be in the romantic dreams of the poet, 
to people in imagination his glades and groves, like the fauns 
and satyrs and sylvan deities of antiquity. But should he 
venture upon the dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness, 
should he tell how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled, driven 
from their native abodes and the sepulchres of their fathers, 
hunted like wild beasts about the earth, and sent down with 
violence and butchery to the grave, posterity will either turn 
with horror and incredulity from the tale or blush with indig- 
nation at the inhumanity of their forefathers. " We are driven 
back," said an old warrior, "until we can retreat no farther — 
our hatchets are broken, our bows are snapped, our fires are 
nearly extinguished ; a little longer and the white man will 
cease to persecute us, for we shall cease to exist ! " 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 2V7 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 

AN INDIAN MEMOIR 

As monumental bronze unchanged his look: 
A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook: 
Train'd from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier 
The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook. 
Impassive — fearing but the shame of fear — 
A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. 

Campbell. 

It is to be regretted that those early writers who treated of 
the discovery and settlement of America have not given us 
more particular and candid accounts of the remarkable charac- 
ters that flourished in savage life. The scanty anecdotes which 
have reached us are full of peculiarity and interest; they 
furnish us with nearer glimpses of human nature, and show 
what man is in a comparatively primitive state and what he 
owes to civilization. There is something of the charm of dis- 
covery in lighting upon these wild and unexplored tracts of 
human nature — in witnessing, as it were, the native growth 
of moral sentiment, and perceiving those generous and romantic 
qualities which have been artificially cultivated by society vege- 
tating in spontaneous hardihood and rude magnificence. 

In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost the 
existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his 
fellow-men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The bold 
and peculiar traits of native character are refined away or soft- 
ened down by the levelling influence of what is termed good- 
breeding, and he practises so many petty deceptions and affects 
so many generous sentiments for the purposes of popularity 



278 THE SKETCH BOOK 

that it is difficult to distinguish his real from his artificial char- 
acter. The Indian, on the contrary, free from the restraints 
and refinements of polished life, and in a great degree a solitary 
and independent being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or 
the dictates of his judgment; and thus the attributes of his 
nature, being freely indulged, grow singly great and striking. 
Society is like a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed, 
every bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by 
the smiling verdure of a velvet surface; he, however, who 
would study Nature in its wildness and variety must plunge 
into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, 
and dare the precipice. 

These reflections arose on casually looking through a volume 
of early colonial history wherein are recorded, with great bitter- 
ness, the outrages of the Indians and their wars with the settlers 
of New England. It is painful to perceive, even from these 
partial narratives, how the footsteps of civilization may be 
traced in the blood of the aborigines ; how easily the colonists 
were moved to hostility by the lust of conquest ; how merciless 
and exterminating was their warfare. The imagination shrinks 
at the idea how many intellectual beings were hunted' from the 
earth, how many brave and noble hearts, of Nature's sterling 
coinage, were broken down and trampled in the dust. 

Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket,° an Indian 
warrior whose name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts 
and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished of a number 
of contemporary sachems who reigned over the Pequods, the Nar- 
ragansetts, the Wampanoags, and the other eastern tribes at the 
time of the first settlement of New England — a band of native 
untaught heroes who made the most generous struggle of which 
human nature is capable, fighting to the last gasp in the cause 
of their country, without a hope of victory or a thought of 
renown. Worthy of an age of poetry and fit subjects for local 
story and romantic fiction, they have left scarcely any authentic 



1 

PHILIP OF POKANOKET 279 j 

traces on the page of liistory, but stalk like gigantic shadows ' 
in the dim twilight of tradition. : 

When the Pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by i 
their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New | 
World from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situation J 
was to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in num- ! 
ber, and that number rapidly perishing away through sickness : 
and hardships, surrounded by a howling wilderness and savage ' 
tribes, exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic winter and the | 
vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate, their minds were filled ! 
with doleful forebodings, and nothing preserved them from sink- 
ing into despondency but the strong excitement of religious , 
enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation they were visited by 
Massasoit, chief sagamore of the Wampanoags, a powerful chief ' 
who reigned over a great extent of country. Instead of taking ' 
advantage of the scanty number of the strangers and expelling 
them from his territories, into which they had intruded, he ' 
seemed at once to conceive for them a generous friendship, i 
and extended towards them the rites of primitive hospitality. i 
He came early in the spring to their settlement of New Plym- '■ 
outh, attended by a mere handful of followers, entered into a ' 
solemn league of peace and amity, sold them a portion of the ' 
soil, and promised to secure for them the good-will of his savage \ 
allies. Whatever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain 'j 
that the integrity and good faith of Massasoit have never been i 
impeached. He continued a firm and magnanimous friend j 
of the white men, suffering them to extend their possessions and 
to strengthen themselves in the land, and betraying no jealousy : 
of their increasing power and prosperity. Shortly before his 
death he came once more to New Plymouth with his son Alex- ! 
ander, for the purpose of renewing the covenant of peace and of \ 
securing it to his posterity. j 

At this conference he endeavored to protect the religion of \ 
his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the missionaries, and , 



280 THE SKETCH BOOK 

stipulated that no further attempt should be made to draw off 
his people from their ancient faith ; but, finding the English ob- 
stinately opposed to any such condition, he mildly relinquished 
the demand. Almost the last act of his life was to bring his 
two sons, Alexander and Philip (as they had been named by the 
English), to the residence of a principal settler, recommending 
mutual kindness and confidence, and entreating that the same 
love and amity which had existed between the white men and 
himself might be continued afterwards with his children. The 
good old sachem died in peace, and was happily gathered to his 
fathers before sorrow came upon his tribe ; his children remained j 
behind to experience the ingratitude of white men. j 

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a 
quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his [ 
hereditary rights and dignity. The intrusive policy and dicta- ' 
torial conduct of the strangers excited his indignation, and he 
beheld with uneasiness their exterminating wars with the 
neighboring tribes. He was doomed soon to incur their hos- - 
tility, being accused of plotting with the Narragansctts to rise 
against the English and drive them from the land. It is impos- 
sible to say whether this accusation was warranted by facts or ; 
was grounded on mere suspicions. It is evident, however, by ' 
the violent and overbearing measures of the settlers that they ; 
had by this time begun to feel conscious of the rapid increase j 
of their power, and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in their i 
treatment of the natives. They despatched an armed force i 
to seize upon Alexander and to bring him before their courts, j 
He was traced to his woodland haunts, and surprised at a j 
hunting-house where he was reposing with a band of his fol- \ 
lowers, unarmed, after the toils of the chase. The suddenness \ 
of his arrest and the outrage offered to his sovereign dignity '. 
so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud savage as ' 
to throw him into a raging fever. He was permitted to return 
home on condition of sending his son as a pledge for h^s re- \ 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 281 

appearance ; but the blow he had received was fatal, and before 
he reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded 
spirit. 

The successor of Alexander was Metamocet, or King Philip, 
as he was called by the settlers on account of his lofty spirit 
and ambitious temper. These, together with his well-known 
energy and enterprise, had rendered him an object of great 
jealousy and apprehension, and he was accused of having always 
cherished a secret and implacable hostility towards the whites. 
Such may very probably and very naturally have been the case. 
He considered them as originally but mere intruders into the 
country, who had presumed upon indulgence and w^ere extend- 
ing an influence baneful to savage life. He saw the whole race 
of his countrymen melting before them from the face of the 
earth, their territories slipping from their hands, and their tribes 
becoming feeble, scattered, and dependent. It may be said that 
the soil was originally purchased by the settlers ; but who does 
not know the nature of Indian purchases in the early periods 
of colonization ? The Europeans always made thrifty bargains 
through their superior adroitness in traffic, and they gained vast 
accessions of territory by easily-provoked hostilities. An un- 
cultivated savage is never a nice inquirer into the refinements 
of law by which an injury may be gradually and legally inflicted. 
Leading facts are all by which he judges ; and it was enough 
for Philip to know that before the intrusion of the Europeans 
his countrymen w^re lords of the soil, and that now they were 
becoming vagabonds in the land of their fathers. 

But whatever may have been his feelings of general hostility 
and his particular indignation at the treatment of his brother, 
he suppressed them for the present, renewed the contract with 
the settlers, and resided peaceably for many years at Pokanoket, 
or, as it was called by the English, Mount Hope,° the ancient 
seat of dominion of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which were 
at first but vague and indefinite, began to acquire form and sub 



282 THE SKETCH BOOK 

stance, and he was at length charged with attempting to insti- 
gate the various eastern tribes to rise at once, and by a simul- 
taneous eflbrt to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. It is 
difficult at this distant period to assign the proper credit due 
to these early accusations against the Indians. There was a 
proneness to suspicion and an aptness to acts of violence on the 
part of the whites that gave weight and importance to every 
idle tale. Informers abounded where tale-bearing met with 
countenance and reward, and the sword was readily unsheathed 
when its success was certain and it carved out empire. 

The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the 
accusation of one Sausaman, a renegade Indian, whose natural 
cunning had been quickened by a partial education which he 
had received among the settlers. He changed his faith and his 
allegiance two or three times with a facility that evinced the 
looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time as ; 
Philip's confidential secretary and counsellor, and had enjoyed \ 
his bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the clouds j 
of adversity were gathering round his patron, he abandoned his i 
service an(l went over to the whites, and in order to gain their ^ 
favor charged his former benefactor with plotting against their ' 
safety. A rigorous investigation took place. Philip and sev- j 
eral of his subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing was | 
proved against them. The settlers, however, had now gone too •{ 
far to retract ; they had previously determined that Philip was ■ 
a dangerous neighbor ; they had publicly evinced their distrust, • 
and had done enough to insure his hostility ; according, there- j 
fore, to the usual mode of reasoning in these cases, his destruc- \ 
tion had become necessary to their security. Sausaman, the \ 
treacherous informer, was shortly afterwards found dead in a \ 
pond, having fallen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe. Three , 
Indians, one of whom was a friend and counsellor of Philip, were , 
apprehended and tried, and on the testimony of one very ques- j 
tionable witness were condemned and executed as murderers. '] 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 283 

This treatment of his subjects and ignominious punishment 
of his friend outraged the pride and exasperated the passions of 
Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet awa- 
kened him to the gathering storm, and he determined to trust 
himself no longer in the power of the white men. The fate of 
his insulted and broken-hearted brother still rankled in his mind; 
and he had a further warning in the tragical story of Miantonimo, 
a great sachem of the Narragansetts, who, after manfully facing 
his accusers before a tribunal of the colonists, exculpating himself 
from a charge of conspiracy and receiving assurances of amity, 
had been perfidiously despatched at their instigation. Philip 
therefore gathered his fighting-men about him, persuaded all 
strangers that he could to join his cause, sent the women and 
children to the Narragansetts for safety, and wherever he ap- 
peared was continually surrounded by armed warriors. 

When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and 
irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a flame. 
The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischievous 
and committed various petty depredations. In one of their 
maraudings a warrior was fired on and killed by a settler. This 
was the signal for open hostilities ; the Indians pressed to 
revenge the death of their comrade, and the alarm of war 
resounded through the Plymouth colony. 

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy times 
we meet with many indications of the diseased state of the public 
mind. The gloom of religious abstraction and the wildness of 
their situation among trackless forests and savage tribes had 
disposed the colonists to superstitious fancies, and had filled 
their imaginations with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and 
spectrology. They were much given also to a belief in omens. 
The troubles with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are 
told, by a variety of those awful warnings which forerun great 
and public calamities. The perfect form of an Indian bow 
appeared in the air at New Plymouth, which was looked upon 



284 THE SKETCH BOOK 

by the inhabitants as a "prodigious apparition." At Hadiey, 
Northampton, and other towns in their neighborhood " was 
heard the report of a great piece of ordnance, with a shaking of 
the earth and a considerable echo." Others were alarmed on 
a still sunshiny morning by the discharge of guns and muskets ; 
bullets seemed to whistle past them, and the noise of drums re- 
sounded in the air, seeming to pass away to the westward ; 
others fancied that they heard the galloping of horses over their 
heads ; and certain monstrous births which took place about 
the time filled the superstitious in some towns with doleful foi'e- 
bodings. Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be 
ascribed to natural phenomena — to the northern lights which 
occur vividly in those latitudes, the meteors which explode in 
the air, the casual rushing of a blast through the top branches 
of the forest, the crash of fallen trees or disrupted rocks, and to 
those other uncouth sounds and echoes which will sometimes 
strike the ear so strangely amidst the profound stillness of wood- 
land solitudes. These may have startled some melancholy 
imaginations, may have been exaggerated by the love for the 
marvellous, and listened to with that avidity with which we 
devour whatever is fearful and mysterious. The universal cur- 
rency of these superstitious fancies and the grave record made 
of them by one of the learned men of the day are strongly char- 
acteristic of the times. 

The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often 
distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and savages. 
On the part of the whites it was conducted with superior skill 
and success, but with a wastefulness of the blood and a disregard 
of the natural rights of their antagonists : on the part of the 
Indians it was waged with the desperation of men fearless of 
death, and who had nothing to expect from peace but humilia- 
tion, dependence, and decay. 

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy clergy- 
man of the time, who dwells with horror and indignation on 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 285 

every hostile act of the Indians, however justifiable, whilst he 
mentions with applause the most sanguinary atrocities of the 
whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer and a traitor, without 
considering that he was a true-born prince gallantly fighting 
at the head of his subjects to avenge the wrongs of his family, 
to retrieve the tottering power of his line, and to deliver his. 
native land from the oppression of usurping strangers. 

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had 
really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and had 
it not been prematurely discovered might have been overwhelm- 
ing in its consequences. The war that actually broke out was 
but a war of detail, a mere succession of casual exploits and 
unconnected enterprises. Still, it sets forth the military genius 
and daring prowess of Philip, and wherever, in the prejudiced 
and passionate narrations that have been given of it, we can 
arrive at simple facts, we find him displaying a vigorous mind, 
a fertility of expedients, a contempt of suff'ering and hardship, 
and an unconquerable resolution that command our sympathy 
and applause. 

■ Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he threw 
himself into the depths of those vast and trackless forests that 
skirted the settlements and were almost impervious to anything 
but a wild beast or an Indian. Here he gathered together his 
forces, like the storm accumulating its stores of mischief in the 
bosom of the thundercloud, and would suddenly emerge at a 
time and place least expected, carrying havoc and dismay into 
the villages. There were now and then indications of these 
impending ravages that filled the minds of the colonists with 
awe and apprehension. The report of a distant gun would per- 
haps be heard from the solitary woodland, where there was 
known to be no white man ; the cattle which had been wander- 
ing in the woods would sometimes return home wounded ; or 
an Indian or two would be seen lurking about the skirts of the 
forests and suddenly disappearing, as the lightning will some- 



286 THE SKETCH BOOK . 

times be seen playing silently about the edge of the cloud that ; 
is brewing up the tempest. j 

Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by the i 
settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from '< 
their toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, would be lost , 
to all search or inquiry until he again emerged at some far ; 
distant quarter, laying the country desolate. Among his ; 
strongholds were the great swamps or morasses which extend ; 
in some parts of New England, composed of loose bogs of deep j 
black mud, perplexed with thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the ' 
shattered and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed \ 
by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing and the tangled i 
mazes of these shaggy wilds rendered them almost impracti- I 
cable to the white man, though the Indian could thread their \ 
labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into one of these, the ■; 
great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip once driven with \ 
a band of his followers. The English did not dare to pursue | 
him, fearing to venture into these dark and frightful recesses, ' 
where they might perish in fens and miry pits or be shot down 
by lurking foes. They therefore invested the entrance to the 
Neck, and began to build a fort with the thought of starving 
out the foe ; but Philip and his warriors wafted themselves on i 
a raft over an arm of the sea in the dead of night, leaving the : 
women and children behind, and escaped away to the westward, [ 
kindling the flames of war among the tribes of Massachusetts ; 
and • the Nipmuck country and threatening the colony of \ 
Connecticut. \ 

In this way Philip became a theme of universal apprehension. \ 
The mystery in which he was enveloped exaggerated his real ' 
terrors. He was an evil that walked in darkness, whose coming j 
none could foresee and against which none knew when to be on ; 
the alert. The whole country abounded with rumors and ] 
alarms. Philip seemed almost possessed of ubiquity, for inv 
whatever part of the widely-extended frontier an irruption from i 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 287 

the forest took iDlace, Philip was said to be its leader. Many 
superstitious notions also were circulated concerning him. He 
was said to deal in necromancy, and to be attended by an old 
Indian witch or prophetess, whom he consulted and who assisted 
him by her charms and incantations. This, indeed, was fre- 
quently the case with Indian chiefs, either through their own 
creduhty or to act upon that of their followers ; and the influ- 
ence of the prophet and the dreamer over Indian superstition 
has been fully evidenced in recent instances of savage warfare. 

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocasset his 
fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had been 
thinned by repeated fights and he had lost almost the whole of 
his resources. In this time of adversity he found a faithful 
friend in Canonchet, chief sachem of all the Narragan setts. He 
was the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great sachem who, as 
already mentioned, after an honorable acquittal of the charge of 
conspiracy, had been privately put to death at the perfidious 
instigations of the settlers. "He was the heir," says the 
old chronicler, " of all his father's pride and insolence, as well 
as of his malice towards the English ; " he certainly was the heir 
of his insults and injuries and the legitimate avenger of his 
murder. Though he had forborne to take an active part in 
this hopeless war, yet he received Philip and his broken forces 
with open arms and gave them the most generous countenance 
and support. This at once drew upon him the hostility of the 
English, and it was determined to strike a signal blow that 
should involve both the sachems in one common ruin. A great 
force was therefore gathered together from Massachusetts, 
Plymouth, and Connecticut, and was sent into the Narragansett 
country in the depth of winter, w^hen the swamps, being frozen 
and leafless, could be traversed with comparative facility and 
would no longer aff'ord dark and impenetrable fastnesses to the 
Indians. 

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the greater 



288 THE SKETCH BOOK j 

part of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, the women iji 
and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress, where he and iii 
Philip had likewise drawn up the flower of their forces. This I 
fortress, deemed by the Indians impregnable, was situated upon ji 
a rising mound or kind of island of five or six acres in the i 
midst of a swamp ; it was constructed with a degree of judg- ;| 
ment and skill vastly superior to what is usually displayed! 
in Indian fortification, and indicative of the martial genius of I 
these two chieftains. 

Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated, 
through December snows, to this stronghold and came uponi 
the garrison by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumultuous. , 
The assailants were repulsed in their first attack, and several of 
their bravest officers were shot down in the act of storming the 
fortress, sword in hand. The assault was renewed with greater 
success. A lodgment was effected. The Indians were driven i 
from one post to another. They disputed their ground inch by 
inch, fighting with the fury of despair. Most of their veterans ■ 
were cut to pieces, and after a long and bloody battle, 
Philip and Canonchet, with a handful of surviving warriors, 
retreated from the fort and took refuge in the thickets of the : 
surrounding forest. 

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort ; the whole : 
was soon in a blaze ; many of the old men, the women, and I 
the children perished in the flames. This last outrage over- 
came even the stoicism of the savage. The neighboring woods \ 
resounded with the yells of rage and despair uttered by the 
fugitive warriors, as they beheld the destruction of their 
dwellings and heard the agonizing cries of their wives and i 
offspring. " The burning of the wigwams," says a contemporary ' 
writer, "the shrieks and cries of the women and children, and t 
the yelling of the warriors, exhibited a most horrible and affect- ■ 
ing scene, so that it greatly moved some of the soldiers." The^ 
same writer cautiously adds, " They were in much doubt then»| 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 289 

and afterwards seriously inquired, whether burning their enemies 
alive could be consistent with humanity, and the benevolent 
principles of the gospel." 

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy of 
particular mention : the last scene of his life is one of the 
noblest instances on record of Indian magnanimity. 

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal defeat, 
yet faithful to his ally and to the hapless cause which he had 
espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace offered on condition 
of betraying Philip and his followers, and declared that "he 
would fight it out to the last man, rather than become a ser- 
vant to the English." His home being destroyed, his country 
harassed and laid waste by the incursions of the conquerors, he 
was obliged to wander away to the banks of the Connecticut, 
where he formed a rallying-point to the whole body of western 
Indians and laid waste several of the English settlements. 

Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expedition, 
with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, in the 
vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed corn to plant for 
the sustenance of his troops. This little band of adventurers 
had passed safely tlirough the Pequod country, and were in the 
centre of the Narragansett, resting at some wigwams near Pau- 
tucket River, when an alarm was given of an approaching 
enemy. Having but seven men by him at the time, Canonchet 
despatched two of them to the top of a neighboring hill to bring 
intelligence of the foe. 

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and 
Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror past 
their chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the danger, 
Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same. He then 
sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in confusion and 
aff'right, told him that the whole British army was at hand. 
Canonchet saw there was no choice but immediate flight. He 
attempted to escape round the hill, but was perceived and 



290 THE SKETCH BOOK 

hotly pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of the fleetest of 
the English, Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his heels, 
he threw off, first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat and 
belt of peag, by which his enemies knew him to be Canonchet 
and redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. 

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped upon 
a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This accident 
so struck him with despair that, as he afterwards confessed, " his 
heart and his bowels turned within him, and he became like a 
rotten stick, void of strength." 

To such a degree was he unnerved that, being seized by a 
Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, he made no 
resistance, though a man of great vigor of body and boldness i 
of heart. But on being made prisoner the whole pride of his: 
spirit arose within him, and from that moment we find, in the] 
anecdotes given by his enemies, nothing but repeated flashes- 
of elevated and prince-like heroism. Being questioned by one 
of the English who first came up with him, and who had not 
attained his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted warrior, , 
looking with lofty contempt upon his youthful countenance, 
replied, "You are a child — you cannot understand matters] 
of war ; let your brother or your chief come : him will I I 
answer." 

Though repeated offers were made to him of his life on 
condition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he 
rejected them with disdain, and refused to send any proposals 
of the kind to the great body of his subjects, saying that he 
knew none of them would comply. Being reproached with his 
breach of faith towards the whites, his boast that he would not I 
deliver up a Wampanoag nor the paring of a Wampanoag's nail, j 
and his threat that he would burn the English alive in their i 
houses, he disdained to justify himself, haughtily answering that \ 
others were as forward for the war as himself, and " he desired 
to hear no more thereof." 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 291 

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his cause 
and his friend, might have touched the feelings of the generous 
and the brave ; but Canonchet was an Indian, a being towards 
whom war had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no com- 
passion : he was condemned to die. The last words of his thal^ 
are recorded are worthy the greatness of his soul. When sen- 
tence of death was jDassed upon him, he observed "that he liked 
it well, for he should die before his heart was soft or he had 
spoken anything unworthy of himself." His enemies gave him 
the death of a soldier, for he was shot at Stoningham by three 
young sachems of his own rank. 

The defeat at the Narragansett fortress and the death of 
Canonchet were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. 
He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war by stir- 
ring up the Mohawks to take arms ; but, though possessed of 
the native talents of a statesman, his arts were counteracted by 
the superior arts of his enlightened enemies, and the terror of 
their warlike skill began to subdue the resolution of the neigh- 
boring tribes. The unfortunate chieftain saw himself daily 
stripped of power, and his ranks rapidly thinning around him. 
Some were suborned by the whites ; others fell victims to hun- 
ger and fatigue and to the frequent attacks by which they were 
harassed. His stores were all captured ; his chosen frienda 
were swept away from before his eyes ; his uncle was shot down 
by his side ; his sister was carried into captivity ; and in one 
of his narrow escapes he was compelled to leave his beloved 
wife and only son to the mercy of the enemy. "His ruin," 
says the historian, " being thus gradually carried on, his misery 
was not prevented, but augmented thereby ; being himself made 
acquainted with the sense and experimental feeling of the cap- 
tivity of his children, loss of friends, slaughter of his subjects, 
bereavement of all family relations, and being stripped of all 
outward comforts before his own life should be taken away." 

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own followers 



292 THE SKETCH BOOK 

began to plot against bis Hfe, that by sacrificing him they might 
purchase dishonorable safety. Through treachery a number of 
his faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, an Indian prin- 
cess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman and confederate of Philip, 
were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. Wetamoe was 
among them at the time, and attempted to make her escape by 
crossing a neighboring river : either exhausted by swimming or i 
starved with cold and hunger, she was found dead and naked 
near the water-side. But persecution ceased not at the grave. \ 
Even death, the refuge of the wretched, where the wicked com- ] 
monly cease from troubling, was no protection to this outcast \ 
female, whose great crime was affectionate fidelity to her kins- \ 
man and her friend. Her corpse was the object of unmanly '\ 
and dastardly vengeance : the head was severed from the body 
and set upon a pole, and was thus exposed at Taunton to the \ 
view of her captive subjects. They immediately recognized 
the features of their unfortunate queen, and were so affected at j 
this barbarous spectacle that we are told they broke forth into j 
the " most horrid and diabolical lamentations." 

However Philip had borne up against the complicated mis- 
eries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery of his 
followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to despond- 
ency. It is said that " he never rejoiced afterwards, nor had 
success in any of his designs." The spring of hope was broken 
— the ardor of enterprise was extinguished ; he looked around, | 
and all was danger and darkness ; there was no eye to pity nor : 
any arm that could bring deliverance. With a scanty band of ; 
followers, wdio still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the \ 
unhappy Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, ; 
the ancient dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked about j 
like a spectre among the scenes of former power and prosperity, \ 
now bereft of home, of family, and of friend. There needs ; 
no better picture of his destitute and piteous situation than that \ 
furnished by the homely pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily i 



PHILIP OF POKANOKET 293 

enlisting the feelings of the reader in favor of the hapless 
warrior whom he reviles. "Philip," he says, "like a savage 
wild beast, having been hunted by the English forces through 
the woods above a hundred miles backward and forward, at 
last was driven to his own den upon Mount Hope, where he 
retired, with a few of his best friends, into a swamp, which 
proved but a prison to keep him fast till the messengers of 
death came by divine permission to execute vengeance upon 
him." 

Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair a sullen 
grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to our- 
selves seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in silence 
over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity 
from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking-place. Defeated, 
but not dismayed — crushed to the earth, but not humiliated — 
he seemed to grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to expe- 
rience a fierce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of bitter- 
ness. Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune, but 
great minds rise above it. The very idea of submission awa- 
keced the fury of Philip, and he smote to death one of his fol- 
lowers who proposed an expedient of peace. The brother of 
the victim made his escape, and in revenge betrayed the retreat 
of his chieftain. A body of white men and Indians were im- 
mediately despatched to the swamp where Philip lay crouched, 
glaring with fury and despair. Before he was aware of their 
approach they had begun to surround him. In a little while 
he saw five of his trustiest followers laid dead at his feet ; all 
resistance was vain ; he rushed forth from his covert, and made 
a headlong attempt to escape, but was shot through the heart 
by a renegado Indian of his own nation. 

Such is the scanty story of the brave but unfortunate King 
Philip, persecuted while living, slandered and dishonored when 
dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes 
furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of 



294 THE SKETCH BOOK 

amiable and lofty character sufficient to awaken sympathy for 
his fate and respect for his memory. We find that amidst all 
the harassing cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare 
he was alive to the softer feelings of connubial love and paternal 
tenderness and to the generous sentiment of friendship. The 
captivity of his " beloved wife and only son " are mentioned 
with exultation as causing him poignant misery : the death of 
any near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his 
sensibilities ; but the treachery and desertion of many of his 
followers, in whose affections he had confided, is said to have 
desolated his heart and to have bereaved him of all further 
comfort. He was a patriot attached to his native soil — a 
prince true to his subjects and indignant of their wrongs — a 
soldier daring in battle, firm in adversity, patient of fatigue, of 
hunger, of every variety of bodily suffering, and ready to perish 
in the cause he had espoused. Proud of heart and with an 
untamable love of natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among 
the beasts of the forests or in the dismal and famished recesses 
of swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to 
submission and live dependent and despised in the ease and 
luxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities and bold 
achievements that would have graced a civilized warrior, and 
have rendered him the theme of the poet and the historian, he 
lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, and went 
down, like a lonely bark foui\dering amid darkness and tempest, 
..without a pitying eye to weep his fall or a friendly hand to 
record his struggle. 



JOHN BULL 295 



JOHN BULL 

An old song, made by an aged old pate, 
Of au old vvorshipf ul gentleman who had a great estate. 
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, 
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate; 
With au old study till'd full of learned old books. 
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, 
With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the hooks, 
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
Like au old courtier, etc. 

Old Song. 

There is no species of humor in which the English more excel 
than that which consists in caricaturing and giving ludicrous 
appellations or nicknames. In this way they have whimsically 
designated, not merely individuals, but nations, and in their 
fondness for pushing a joke they have not spared even them- 
selves. One would think that in personifying itself a nation 
would be apt to picture something grand, heroic, and imposing ; 
but it is characteristic of the peculiar humor of the English, and 
of their love for what is blunt, comic, and familiar, that they 
have embodied their national oddities in the figure of a sturdy, 
corpulent old fellow with a three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, 
leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have 
taken a singular delight in exhibiting their most private foibles 
in a laughable point of view, and have been so successful in 
their delineations that there is scarcely a being in actual exist- 
ence more absolutely present to the public mind than that 
eccentric personage, John Bull. 

Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus 
drawn of them has contributed to fix it upon the nation, and 
thus to give reality to what at first may have been painted in a 
great measure from the imagination. Men are apt to acquire 



296 THE SKETCH BOOK i 

peculiarities that are continually ascribed to them. The com- ] 
mon orders of English seem wonderfully captivated with the i 
beau ideal which they have formed of John Bull, and endeavor j 
to act up to the broad caricature that is perpetually before | 
their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make their boasted Bull- | 
ism an apology for their prejudice or grossness ; and this I have \ 
especially noticed among those truly homebred and genuine sons : 
of the soil who have never migrated beyond the sound of Bow 
bells. If one of these should be a little uncouth in speech and ■ 
apt to utter impertinent truths, he confesses that he is a real i 
John Bull and always speaks his mind. If he now and then ; 
flies into an unreasonable burst of passion about trifles, he ob- \ 
serves that John Bull is a choleric old blade, but then his passion ! 
is over in a moment and he bears no malice. If he betrays a ; 
coarseness of taste and an insensibility to foreign refinements, he ! 
thanks Heaven for his ignorance — ■ he is a plain John Bull and i 
has no relish for frippery and knicknacks. His very proneness I 
to be gulled by strangers and to pay extravagantly for absurd- I 
ities is excused under the plea of munificence, for John is always i 
more generous than wise. ' 

Thus, under the name of John Bull he will contrive to argue i 
every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict himself of 
being the honestest fellow in existence. ! 

However little, therefore, the character may have suited in 
the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the nation, \ 
or rather they have adapted themselves to each other ; and a 
stranger who wishes to study English peculiarities may gather 
much valuable information from the innumerable portraits 
of John Bull as exhibited in the windows of the caricature- 
shops. Still, however, he is one of those fertile humorists that 
are continually throwing out new portraits and presenting 
difterent aspects from diff'erent points of view ; and, often as he 
has been described, I cannot resist the temptation to give a 
slight sketch of him such as he has met my eye. i 



JOHN BULL 297 

John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain, downright, matter-of- 
fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich 
prose. There is little of romance in his nature, but a vast 
deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in humor more 
than in wit ; is jolly rather than gay ; melancholy rather than 
morose ; can easily be moved to a sudden tear or surprised into 
a broad laugh ; but he loathes sentiment and has no turn 
for light pleasantry. He is a boon companion, if you allow him 
to have his humor and to talk about himself; and he will 
stand by a friend in a quarrel with life and purse, however 
soundly he may be cudgelled. 

In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity to 
be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, who 
thinks not merely for himself and family, but for all the 
country round, and is most generously disposed to be every- 
body's champion. He is continually volunteering his services 
to settle his neighbor's affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon 
if they engage in any matter of consequence without asking his 
advice, though he seldom engages in any friendly office of the 
kind without finishing by getting into a squabble with all 
parties, and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He 
unluckily took lessons in his youth in the noble science of 
defence, and having accomplislied himself in the use of his 
limbs and his weapons and become a perfect master at boxing 
and cudgel-play, he has had a troublesome life of it ever since. 
He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most distant of his 
neighbors but he begins incontinently to fumble with the head 
of his cudgel, and consider whether his interest or honor does 
not require that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed, he has 
extended his relations of pride and policy so completely over 
the whole country that no event can take place without infring- 
ing some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in 
his little domain, with these filaments stretching forth in every 
direction, he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied old spider who has 



298 THE SKETCH BOOK 

woven his web over a whole chamber, so that a fly cannot buzz 
nor a breeze blow without startling his repose and causing him 
to sally forth wrathfully from his den. 

Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow at 
bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst of 

contention. It is one of his peculiarities, however, that he only i 

relishes the beginning of an affray; he always goes into a fight : 

with alacrity, but comes out of it grumbling even when victori- ' 

ous; and though no one fights with more obstinacy to carry j 

a contested point, yet when the battle is over and he comes to J 

the reconciliation he is so much taken up with the mere shaking ; 

of hands that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all that they \ 

have been quarrelling about. It is not, therefore, fighting that ! 

he ought so much to be on his guard against as making friends. ^ 

It is difficult to cudgel him out of a farthing ; but put him in a | 

good humor and you may bargain him out of all the money i 

in his pocket. He is like a stout ship which will weather the ' 

roughest storm uninjured, but roll its masts overboard in the \ 

succeeding calm. ' 

He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad, of pulling | 

out a long purse, flinging his money bravely about at boxing- I 
matches, horse-races, cock-fights, and carrying a high head among 

"gentlemen of the fancy : " but immediately after one of these ■ 
fits of extravagance he will be taken with violent qualms of 

economy; stop short at the most trivial expenditure; talk , 

desperately of being ruined and brought upon the parish ; and \ 

in such moods will not pay the smallest tradesman's bill without : 

violent altercation. He is, in fact, the most punctual and \ 

discontented paymaster in the world, drawing his coin out i 

of his breeches pocket with infinite reluctance, paying to the i 
uttermost farthing, but accompanying every guinea with a 
growl. 

With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful ; 

provider and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is of a J 



JOHN BULL 299 

whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise how he may 
afford to be extravagant ; for he will begrudge himself a beef- 
steak and a pint of port one day that he may roast an ox 
whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and treat all his neighbors 
on the next. 

His domestic establishment is enormously expensive, not so 
much from any great outward parade as from the great con- 
sumption of solid beef and pudding, the vast number of followers 
he feeds and clothes, and his singular disposition to pay hugely 
for small services. He is a most kind and indulgent master, 
and, provided his servants humor his peculiarities, flatter his 
vanity a little now and then, and do not peculate grossly on 
him before his face, they may manage him to perfection. 
Everything that lives on him seems to thrive and grow fat. 
His house-servants are well paid and pampered and have little 
to do. His horses are sleek and lazy and prance slowly before 
his state carriage ; and his house-dogs sleep quietly about the 
door and will hardly bark at a housebreaker. 

His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, gray 
with age, and of a most venerable though weather-beaten 
appearance. It has been built upon no regular plan, but is 
a vast accumulation of parts erected in various tastes and ages. 
The centre bears evident traces of Saxon architecture, and is 
as solid as ponderous stone and old English oak can make it. 
Like all the relics of that style, it is full of obscure passages, 
intricate mazes, and dusty chambers, and, though these have 
been partially lighted up in modern days, yet there are many 
places where you must still grope in the dark. Additions have 
been made to the original edifice from time to time, and great 
alterations have taken place ; towers and battlements have 
been erected during wars and tumults: wings built in time 
of peace ; and out-houses, lodges, and offices run up according 
to the whim or convenience of different generations, until it has 
become one of the most spacious, rambling tenements imagi- 



300 THE SKETCH BOOK 

nable. An entire wing is taken up with the family chapel, 
a reverend pile that must have been exceedingly sumptuous, 
and, indeed, in spite of having been altered and simplified 
at various periods, has still a look of solemn religious pomp. 
Its walls within are storied with the monuments of John's 
ancestors, and it is snugly fitted up with soft cushions and well- 
lined chairs, where such of his family as are inclined to church 
services may doze comfortably in the discharge of their duties. 

To keep up this chapel has cost John much money ; but he 
is stanch in his religion and piqued in his zeal, from the cir- 
cumstance that many dissenting chapels have been erected in 
his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with whom he has 
had quarrels, are strong papists. 

To do the duties of the chapel, he maintains, at a large ex- 
pense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most learned 
and decorous personage and a truly well-bred Christian, who 
always backs the old gentleman in his opinions, winks dis- 
creetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the children when 
refractory, and is of great use in exhorting the tenants to read 
their Bibles, say their prayers, and, above all, to pay their rents 
punctually and without grumbling. 

The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, some- 
what heavy and often inconvenient, but full of the solemn 
magnificence of former times, fitted up with rich though faded 
tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of massy, gorgeous old 
plate. The vast fireplaces, ample kitchens, extensive cellars, 
and sumptuous banqueting-halls all speak of the roaring hospi- 
tality of days of yore, of which the modern festivity at the 
manor-house is but a shadow. There are, however, complete 
suites of rooms apparently deserted and time-worn, and towers 
and turrets that are tottering to decay, so that in high winds 
there is danger of their tumbling about the ears of the house- 
hold. 

John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice 



JOHN BULL 301 

tlioroughly overhauled, and to have some of the useless parts 
pulled down, and the others strengthened with their materials ; 
but the old gentleman always grows testy on this subject. 
He swears the house is an excellent house ; that it is tight and 
weather-proof, and not to be shaken by tempests ; that it has 
stood for several hundred years, and therefore is not likely to 
tumble down now ; that as to its being inconvenient, his family 
is accustomed to the inconveniences and would not be comfort- 
able without them ; that as to its unwieldy size and irregular 
construction, these result from its being the growth of centu- 
ries and being improved by the wisdom of every generation; 
that an old family, like his, requires a large house to dwell in ; 
new, upstart families may live in modern cottages and snug 
boxes ; but an old English family should inhabit an old Eng- 
lish manor-house. If you point out any part of the building 
as superfluous, he insists that it is material to the strength or 
decoration of the rest and the harmony of the whole, and 
swears that the parts are so built into each other that if you 
pull down one, you run the risk of having the whole aboiit 
your ears. 

The secret of the matter is, that John has a great disposition 
to protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable to the 
dignity of an ancient and honorable family to be bounteous in 
its appointments and to be eaten up by dependents ; and so. 
partly from pride and partly from kind-heartedness, he makes 
it a rule always to give shelter and maintenance to his super- 
annuated servants. 

The consequence is, that, like many other venerable family 
establishments, his manor is incumbered by old retainers whom 
he cannot turn off, and an old style which he cannot lay down. 
His mansion is like a great hospital of invalids, and, with all 
its magnitude, is not a whit too large for its inhabitants. Not 
a nook or corner but is of use in housing some useless personage. 
Groups of veteran beef eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired 



302 THE SKETCH BOOK 

heroes of the buttery and the larder are seen lolling about its 
walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing under its trees, or sunning 
themselves upon the benches at its doors. Every office and 
out-house is garrisoned by these supernumeraries and their 
families ; for they are amazingly prolific, and when they die oflF 
are sure to leave John a legacy of hungry mouths to be pro- 
vided for. A mattock cannot be struck against the most mould- 
ering tumble-down tower but out pops, from some cranny or 
loophole, the gray pate of some superannuated hanger-on, who 
has lived at John's expense all his life, and makes the most 
grievous outcry at their pulling down the roof from over the 
head of a worn-out servant of the family. This is an appeal 
that John's honest heart never can withstand ; so that a man 
who has faithfully eaten his beef and pudding all his life is 
sure to be rewarded with a pipe and tankard in his old days. 

A great part of his park also is turned into paddocks, where 
his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze undisturbed 
for the remainder of their existence — a worthy example of 
grateful recollection which, if some of his neighbors were to 
imitate, would not be to their discredit. Indeed, it is one of 
his great pleasures to point out these old steeds to his visitors, 
to dwell on their good qualities, extol their past services, and 
boast, with some little vain-glory, of the perilous adventures 
and hardy exploits through which they have carried him. 

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family 
usages and family incumbrances to a whimsical extent. His 
manor is infested by gangs of gypsies ; yet he will not suffer 
them to be driven off, because they have infested the place 
time out of mind and been regular poachers upon every genera- 
tion of the family. He will scarcely permit a dry branch to be 
lopped from the great trees that surround the house, lest it 
should molest the rooks that have bred there for centuries. 
Owls have taken possession of the dovecote, but they are 
hereditary owls and must not be disturbed. Swallows have 



JOHN BULL 303 

nearly choked up every chimney with their nests ; martins build 
in every frieze and cornice ; crows flutter about the towers and 
perch on every weather-cock ; and old gray- headed rats may be 
seen in every quarter of the house, running in and out of 
their holes undauntedly in broad daylight. In short, John has 
such a reverence for everything that has been long in the family 
that he will not hear even of abuses being reformed, because 
they are good old family abuses. 

All these whims and habits have concurred woefully to drain 
the old gentleman's purse ; and as he prides himself on punctu- 
ality in money matters and wishes to maintain his credit in the 
neighborhood, they have caused him great perplexity in meeting 
his engagements. This, too, has been increased by the alter- 
cations and heart-burnings which are continually taking place in 
his family. His children have been brought up to difterent call- 
ings and are of different ways of thinking ; and as they have 
always been allowed to speak their minds freely, they do not fail 
to exercise the privilege most clamorously in the present posture 
of his aff'airs. Some stand up for the honor of the race, and are 
clear that the old establishment should be kept up in all its state, 
whatever may be the cost ; others, who are more prudent and 
considerate, entreat the old gentleman to retrench his expenses 
and to put his whole system of housekeeping on a more moderate 
footing. He has, indeed, at times, seemed inclined to hsten to 
their opinions, but their wholesome advice has been completely 
defeated by the obstreperous conduct of one of his sons. This 
is a noisy, rattle-pated fellow, of rather low habits, who neglects 
his business to frequent ale-houses — is the orator of village 
clubs and a complete oracle among the poorest of his father's 
tenants. No sooner does he hear any of his brothers mention 
reform or retrenchment than up he jumps, takes the words out 
of their mouths, and roars out for an overturn. When his 
tongue is once going nothing can stop it. He rants about the 
room j hectors the old man about his spendthrift practices ; ridi' 



304 THE SKETCH BOOK 

cules his tastes and pursuits; insists that he shall turn the old 
servants out of doors, give the broken-down horses to the hounds, 
send the fat chaplain packing, and take a field-preacher in his 
place ; nay, that the whole family mansion shall be levelled with 
the ground, and a plain one of brick and mortar built in its 
place. He rails at every social entertainment and family festiv- 
ity, and skulks away growling to the ale-house whenever an 
equipage drives up to the door. Though constantly complain- 
ing of the emptiness of his purse, yet he scruples not to spend 
all his pocket-money in these tavern convocations, and even runs 
up scores for the liquor over which he preaches about his father's 
extravagance. 

It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting agrees 
with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He has become so 
irritable from repeated crossings that the mere mention of re- 
trenchment or reform is a signal for a brawl between him and 
the tavern oracle. As the latter is too sturdy and refractory for 
paternal discipline, having grown out of all fear of the cudgel, 
they have frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which at times run 
so high that John is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an 
officer who has served abroad, but is at present living at home 
on half-pay. This last is sure to stand by the old gentleman, 
right or wrong, likes nothing so much as a racketing, roistering 
life, and is ready at a wink or nod to out sabre and flourish it 
over the orator's head if he dares to array himself against pa- 
rental authority. 

These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and are 
rare food for scandal in John's neighborhood. People begin to 
look wise and shake their heads whenever his affairs are men- 
tioned. They all "hope that matters are not so bad with him 
as represented ; but when a man's own children begin to rail at 
his extravagance, things must be badly managed. They under- 
stand he is mortgaged over head and ears and is continually 
dabbling with money-lenders. He is certainly an open-handed 



JOHN BULL 305 

old gentleman, but they fear he has lived too fast ; indeed, they 
never knew ^ny good come of this fondness for hunting, racing, 
revelling, and prize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull's estate is a 
very fine one and has been in the family a long while, but, for all 
that, they have known many finer estates come to the hammer/' 

What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary em- 
barrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor man him- 
self. Instead of that jolly round corporation and smug rosy 
face which he used to present, he has of late become as shrivelled 
and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. His scarlet gold-laced waist- 
coat, which bellied out so bravely in those prosperous days when 
he sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about him like a 
mainsail in a calm. His leather breeches are all in folds and 
wrinkles, and apparently have much ado to hold up the boots 
that yawn on both sides of his once sturdy legs. 

Instead of strutting about as formerly with his three-cornered 
hat on one side, flourishing his cudgel, and bringing it down 
every moment with a hearty thump upon the ground, looking 
every one sturdily in the face, and trolling out a stave of a catch 
-or a drinking-song, he now goes about whistling thoughtfully to 
himself, with his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked under 
his arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches 
pockets, which are evidently empty. 

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present, yet for all 
this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. If 
you drop the least expression of sympathy or concern, he takes 
fire in an instant ; swears that he is ^he ricihest and stoutest 
fellow in the country; talks of laying out large sums to adorn 
his house or buy another estate ; and with a valiant swagger 
and grasping of his cudgel longs exceedingly to have another 
bout at quarter-staff. 

Though there may be something rather whimsical in all this, 
yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation without 
strong feelings of interest. With all his odd humors and obsti 



306 THE SKETCH BOOK 

nate prejudices he is a sterling-hearted old blade. He may not 

be so wonderfully fine a fellow as he thinks himself, but he is ] 
at least twice as good as his neighbors represent him. His 

virtues are all his own — all plain, homebred, and unaffected. I 

His very faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities, j 

His extravagance savors of his generosity, his quarrelsomeness ; 

of his courage, his credulity of his open faith, his vanity of his ' 

pride, and his bluntness of his sincerity. They are all the re- \ 

dundancies of a rich and liberal character. He is like his own ; 

oak, rough without, but sound and solid within ; whose bark ! 

abounds with excrescences in proportion to the growth and i 

grandeur of the timber ; and whose branches make a fearful i 
groaning and murmuring in the least storm from their very 
magnitude and luxuriance. There is something, too, in the 

appearance of his old family mansion that is extremely poetical ' 

and picturesque ; and as long as it can be rendered comfortably \ 

habitable I should almost tremble to see it meddled with dur- \ 

ing the present conflict of tastes and opinions. Some of his ! 

advisers are no doubt good architects that might be of service ; ; 

but many, I fear, are mere levellers, who, when they had once j 

got to work with their mattocks on this venerable edifice, ^ 

would never stop until they had brought it to the ground, and ; 
perhaps buried themselves among the ruins. All that I wish 

is, that John's present troubles may teach him more prudence i 

in future — that he may cease to distress his mind about other , 

people's affairs ; that he may give up the fruitless attempt to ' 
promote the good of his neighbors and the peace and happiness 
of the world, by dint of the cudgel; that he may remain 

quietly at home ; gradually get his house into repair ; cultivate ; 

his rich estate according to his fancy ; husband his income — I 
if he thinks proper ; bring his unruly children into order — if 

he can ; renew the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity ; and long \ 

enjoy on his paternal lands a green, an honorable, and a merry , 

old age. ' 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 307 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 

May no wolf e howle ; no screech owle stir 

A wing about thy sepulchre ! 

No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 

To starve or wither 
Thy soft sweet earth ! but, like a spring, 
Love kept it ever flourishing. 

Herrick. 

In the course of an excursion through one of the remote 
counties of England, I had struck into one of those cross-roads 
that lead through the more secluded parts of the country, and 
stopped one afternoon at a village the situation of which was 
beautifully rural and retired. There was an air of primitive 
simplicity about its inhabitants not to be found in the villages 
which lie on the great coach-roads. I determined to pass the 
night there, and, having taken an early dinner, strolled out to 
• enjoy the neighboring scenery. 

My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon led me 
to the church, which stood at a little distance from the village. 
Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its old tower being 
completely overrun with ivy, so that only here and there a jut- 
ting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or a fantastically carved 
ornament peered through the verdant covering. It was a lovely 
evening. The early part of the day had been dark and showery, 
but in the afternoon it had cleared up, and, though sullen clouds 
still hung overhead, yet there was a broad tract of golden sky in 
the west, from which the setting sun gleamed through the drip- 
ping leaves and lit up all Nature into a melancholy smile. It 
seemed like the parting hour of a good Christian smiling on the 
sins and sorrows of the world, and giving, in the serenity of his 
decline, an assurance that he will rise again in glory. 



308 THE SKETCH BOOK 

I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and was mus- 
ing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on past 
scenes and early friends — on those who were distant and those 
who were dead — and indulging in that kind of melancholy fan- 
cying which has in it something sweeter even than pleasure. 
Every now and then the stroke of a bell from the neighboring 
tower fell on my ear ; its tones were in unison with the scene, 
and, instead of jarring, chimed in with my feelings ; and it was 
some time before I recollected that it must be tolling the knell 
of some new tenant of the tomb. 

Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village green ; 
it wound slowly along a lane, was lost, and reappeared through 
the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place where I was 
sitting. The pall was supported by young girls dressed in white, 
and another, about the age of seventeen, walked before, bearing 
a chaplet of white flowers — a token that the deceased was a 
young and unmarried female. The corpse was followed by the 
parents. They were a venerable couple of the better order of 
peasantry. The father seemed to repress his feelings, but his 
fixed eye, contracted brow, and deeply-furrowed face showed the 
struggle that was passing within. His wife hung on his arm, 
and wept aloud with the convulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow. 

I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was placed 
in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers, with a pair 
of white gloves, was hung over the seat which the deceased had 
occupied. Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the 
funeral service, for who is so fortunate as never to have followed 
some one he has loved to the tomb 1 But when performed over 
the remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low in the bloom 
of existence, what can be more affecting ? At that simple but 
most solemn consignment of the body to the grave — " Earth 
to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust ! " — the tears of the 
youthful companions of the deceased flowed unrestrained. The 
father still seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to comfort 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 309 

himself with the assurance that the dead are blessed which die 
in the Lord ; but the mother only thought of her child as a 
flower of the field cut down and withered in the midst of its 
sweetness ; she was like Rachel, " mourning over her children, 
and would not be comforted." 

On returning to the inn I learnt the whole story of the de- 
ceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been told. 
She had been the beauty and pride of the village. Her father 
had once been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in circum- 
stances. This was an only child, and brought up entirely at 
home in the simplicity of rural life. She had been the pupil 
of the village pastor, the favorite lamb of his little flock. The 
good man watched over her education with paternal care ; it 
was limited and suitable to the sphere in which she was to move, 
for he only sought to make her an ornament to her station in 
life, not to raise her above it. The tenderness and indulgence 
of her parents and the exemption from all ordinary occupations 
had fostered a natural grace and delicacy of character that ac- 
corded with the fragile loveliness of her form. She appeared 
like some tender plant of the garden blooming accidentally amid 
the hardier natives of the fields. 

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged by 
her companions, but without envy, for it was surpassed by the 
unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her manners. 
It m^ight be truly said of her : — 

•* This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever 
Ran on the green-sward ; nothing she does or seems 
But smacks of something greater than herself ; 
Too noble for this place." 

The village was one of those sequestered spots which still 
retain some vestiges of old English customs. It liad its rural 
festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some faint 
observance of the once popular rites of May, These, indeedf 



310 THE SKETCH BOOK 

had been promoted by its present pastor, who was a lover of 
old customs and one of those simple Christians that think their 
mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and good- will among 
mankind. Under his auspices the May-pole stood from year to 
year in the centre of the village green ; on May-day it was deco- 
rated with garlands and streamers, and a queen or lady of the 
May was appointed, as in former times, to preside at the sports 
and distribute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque situation 
of the village and the fancifulness of its rustic fetes would often 
attract the notice of casual visitors. Among these, on one May-day, 
was a young officer whose regiment had been recently quartered 
in the neighborhood. He was charmed with the native taste 
that pervaded this village pageant, but, above all, with the 
dawning loveliness of the queen of May. It was the village 
favorite wlio was crowned with flowers, and blushing and smil- 
ing in all the beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and de- 
light. The artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily to 
make her acquaintance; he gradually won his way into her 
intimacy, and paid his court to her in that unthinking way in 
which young' officers are too apt to trifle with rustic simplicit5^ 
There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. He 
never even talked of love, but there are modes of making it 
more eloquent than language, and which convey it subtilely and 
irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone of the 
voice, the thousand tendernesses which emanate from every word 
and look and action, — these form the true eloquence of love, 
and can always be felt and understood, but never described. 
Can we wonder that they should readily win a heart young, 
guileless, and susceptible ? As to her, she loved almost uncon- 
sciously ; she scarcely inquired what was the growing passion 
that was absorbing every thought and feeling, or what were to 
be its consequences. She, indeed, looked not to the future. 
"When present, his looks and words occupied her whole attention ; 
when absent, she thought but of what had passed at theif recent 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 311 

interview. She would wander with him through the green 
lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. He taught her to see 
new beauties in Nature ; he talked in the language of polite 
and cultivated life, and breathed into her ear the witcheries of 
romance and poetry. 

Perhaps there could not have been a passion between the 
sexes more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant figure 
of her youthful admirer and the splendor of his military attire 
might at first have charmed her eye, but it was not these that 
had captivated her heart. Her attachment had something in it 
of idolatry. She looked up to him as to a being of a superior 
order. She felt in his society the enthusiasm of a mind natu- 
rally delicate and poetical, and now first awakened to a keen 
perception of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinctions 
of rank and fortune she thought nothing ; it was the difference 
of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from those of the rustic 
society to which she had been accustomed, that elevated him in 
her opinion. She would listen to him with charmed ear and 
downcast look of mute delight, and her cheek would mantle 
with enthusiasm ; or if ever she ventured a shy glance of timid 
admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and she would sigh 
and blush at the idea of her comparative un worthiness. 

Her lover was equally impassioned, but his passion was min- 
gled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun the con- 
nection in levity, for he had often heard his brother-officers 
boast of their village conquests, and thought some triumph of 
the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of spirit. But 
he was too full of youthful fervor. His heart had not yet been 
rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a wandering and a dissi- 
pated life : it caught fire from the very flame it sought to 
kindle, and before he was aware of the nature of his situation 
he became really in love. 

What was he to do ? There were the old obstacles which so 
incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. His rank in 



312 THE SKETCH BOOK \ 

life, the prejudices of titled connections, his dependence upon a • 
proud and unyielding father, all forbade him to think of matri- j 
mony ; but when he looked down upon this innocent being, so ! 
tender and confiding, there was a purity in her manners, a ! 
blamelessness in her life, and a beseeching modesty in her looks i 
that awed down every licentious feeling. In vain did he try \ 
to fortify himself by a thousand heartless examples of men { 
of fashion, and to chill the glow of generous sentiment with \ 
that cold derisive levity with which he had heard them talk of ' 
female virtue : whenever he came into her presence she was 
still surrounded by that mysterious' but impassive charm of ; 
virgin purity in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought can i 
live. j 

The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to { 
the Continent completed the confusion of his mind. He re- j 
mained for a short time in a state of the most painful irresolu- i 
tion ; he hesitated to communicate the tidings until the day for ■ 
marching was at hand, when he gave her the intelligence in the i 
course of an evening ramble. j 

The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It j 
broke in at once upon her dream of felicity ; she looked upon ; 
it as a sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept with the \ 
guileless simplicity of a child. He drew her to his bosom and ' 
kissed the tears from her soft cheek ; nor did he meet with a i 
repulse, for there are moments of mingled sorrow and tenderness \ 
which hallow the caresses of affection. He was naturally \ 
impetuous, and the sight of beauty apparently yielding in his I 
arms, the confidence of his power over her, and the dread of ! 
losing her forever all conspired to overwhelm his better feelings : ; 
he ventured to propose that she should leave her home and be ' 
the companion of his fortunes. 

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and faltered '\ 
at his own baseness ; but so innocent of mind was his intended : 
victim that she was at first at a loss to comprehend his mean- i 

] 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 313 

ing, and why she should leave her native village and the humble 
roof of her parents. When at last the nature of his proposal 
flashed upon her pure mind, the effect was withering. She did 
not weep ; she did not break forth into reproach ; she said not 
a word, but she shrunk back aghast as from a viper, gave him a 
look of anguish that pierced to his very soul, and, clasping her 
hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her father's cottage. 

The officer retired confounded, humiliated, and repentant. 
It is uncertain what might have been the result of the conflict 
of his feelings, had not his thoughts been diverted by the bustle 
of departure. New scenes, new pleasures, and new companions 
soon dissipated his self-reproach and stifled his tenderness ; yet, 
amidst the stir of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of 
armies, and even the din of battles, his thoughts would some- 
times steal back to the scenes of rural quiet and village simplicity 
— the white cottage, the footpath along the silver brook and up 
the hawthorn hedge, and the little village maid loitering along 
it, leaning on his arm and listening to him with eyes beaming 
with unconscious affection. 

The shock which the poor girl had received in the destruction 
of all her ideal world had indeed been cruel. Faintings and 
hysterics had at first shaken her tender frame, and were suc- 
ceeded by a settled and pining melancholy. She had beheld 
from her window the march of the departing troops. She had 
seen her faithless lover borne off", as if in triumph, amidst the 
sound of drum and trumpet and the pomp of arms. She strained 
a last aching gaze after him as the morning sun glittered about his 
figure and his plume waved in the breeze ; he passed away like 
a bright vision from her sight, and left her all in darkness. 

It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after 
story. It was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She 
avoided society and wandered out alone in the walks she had 
most frequented with her lover. She sought, like the stricken 
deer, to weep in silence and loneliness and brood over the barbed 



314 THE SKETCH BOOK 

sorrow that rankled in her soul. Sometimes she would be seen late 
of an evening sitting in the porch of the village church, and the 
milkmaids, returning from the fields, would now and then over- 
hear her singing some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn walk. 
She became fervent in her devotions at church, an"' as the old 
people saw her approach, so wasted away, yet with a hectic 
bloom and that hallowed air which melancholy diffuses round 
the form, they would make way for her as for something 
spiritual, and looking after her, w(ould shake their heads in 
gloomy foreboding. 

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, 
but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord 
that had bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed 
to be no more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle 
bosom had entertained resentment against her lover, it was 
extinguished. She was incapable of angry passions, and in 
a moment of saddened tenderness she penned him a farewell 
letter. It was couched in the simplest language, but touching 
from its very simplicity. She told him that she was dying, 
and did not conceal from him that his conduct was the cause. 
She even depicted the sufferings which she had experienced, but 
concluded with saying that she could not die in peace until she 
had sent him her forgiveness and her blessing. 

By degrees her strength declined that she could no longer 
leave the cottage. She could only totter to the window, where, 
propped up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day 
and look out upon the landscape. Still she uttered no com- 
plaint nor imparted to any one the malady that was preying on 
her heart. She never even mentioned her lover's name, but would 
lay her head on her mother's bosom and weep in silence. Her 
poor parents hung in mute anxiety over this fading blossom of 
their hopes, still flattering themselves that it might again revive 
to freshness and that the bright unearthly bloom which some- 
times flushed her cheek might be the promise of returning health. 



THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 315 

In this way she was seated between them one Sunday after- 
noon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown 
open, nd the soft air that stole in brought with it the fragrance 
of the clustering honeysuckle which her own hands had trained 
round th window. 

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible : it 
spoke of the vanity of worldly things and of the joys of heaven : 
it seemed to have diifused comfort and serenity through her bosom. 
Her eye was fixed on the distant village church : the bell had 
tolled for the evening service ; the last villager was lagging into 
the porch, and everything had sunk into that hallowed stillness 
peculiar to the day of rest. Her parents were gazing on her 
with yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass so 
roughly over some faces, had given to hers the expression of a 
seraph's. A tear trembled in her soft blue eye. Was she 
thinking of her faithless lover ? or were her thoughts wandering 
to that distant churchyard, into whose bosom she might soon 
be gathered? 

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard : a horseman galloped 
to the cottage ; he dismounted before the window ; the poor 
girl gave a faint exclamation and sunk back in her chair : 
it was her repentant lover. He rushed into the house and flew 
to clasp her to his bosom ; but her wasted form, her deathlike 
countenance — so wan, yet so lovely in its desolation — smote 
him to the soul, and he threw himself in agony at her feet. 
She was too faint to rise — she attempted to extend her trem- 
bling hand — her lips moved as if she spoke, but no word was 
articulated ; she looked down upon him with a smile of unutter- 
able tenderness, and closed her eyes forever. 

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village 
story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little 
novelty to recommend them. In the present rage also for 
strange incident and high-seasoned narrative they may appear 
trite and insignificant, but they interested me strongly at the 



316 THE SKETCH BOOK 

time; and, taken in connection with the affecting ceremony 
which I had just witnessed, left a deeper impression on my 
mind than many circumstances of a more striking nature. I 
have passed through the place since, and visited the church 
again from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a win- 
try evening : the trees were stripped of their foliage, the church- 
yard looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled coldly 
through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, had been planted 
about the grave of the village favorite, and osiers were bent 
over it to keep the turf uninjured. 

The church-door was open and I stepped in. There hung the 
chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the funeral : 
the flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed to have 
been taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. I have 
seen many monuments where art has exhausted its powers to 
awaken the sympathy of the spectator, but I have met with 
none that spoke more touchingly to my heart than this simple 
but delicate memento of departed innocence. 



THE ANGLER 

This day Dame Nature seem'd in love, 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines, 

And birds had drawn tlieir valentines. 

The jealous trout that low did lie, 

Rose at a well-dissembled flie. 

There stood my friend, with patient skill, 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

Sir H. Wotton. 

It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run 
away from his family and betake himself to a seafaring life 
from reading the history of Robinson Crusoe ; and I suspect 
that, in like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen who are 



THE ANGLER 317 

given to haunt the sides of pastoral streams with angle-rods in 
hand may trace the origin of their passion to the seductive 
pages of honest Izaak Walton.** I recollect studying his Com- 
plete Angler several years since in company with a knot of 
friends in America, and moreover that we were all completely 
bitten with the angling mania. It was early in the year, but 
as soon as the weather was auspicious, and that the spring 
began to melt into the verge of summer, we took rod in hand 
and sallied into the country, as stark mad as was ever Don 
Quixote from reading books of chivalry. 

One of our party had equalled the Don in the fulness of his 
equipments, being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. He 
wore a broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a hun- 
dred pockets ; a pair of stout shoes and leathern gaiters ; a 
basket slung on one side for fish ; a patent rod, a landing net, 
and a score of other inconveniences only to be found in the true 
angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, he was as great 
a matter of stare and wonderment among the country folk, who 
had never seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad hero of La 
Mancha among the goatherds of the Sierra Morena. 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook among the High- 
lands of the Hudson — a most unfortunate place for the execu- 
tion of those piscatory tactics which had been invented along 
the velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. It was one of 
those wild streams that lavish, among our romantic solitudes, 
unheeded beauties enough to fill the sketch-book of a hunter 
of the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap down rocky 
shelves, making small cascades, over which the trees threw 
their broad balancing sprays, and long nameless weeds hung 
in fringes from the impending banks, dripping with diamond 
drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret along a ravine 
in the matted shade of a forest, filling it with murmurs, and 
after this termagant career would steal forth into open day with 
the most placid, demure face imaginable, as I have seen some 



318 THE SKETCH BOOK 

pestilent shrew of a housewife, after filling her home with uproar 
and ill-humor, come dimpling out of doors, swimming and curt- 
seying and smiling upon all the world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide at such times 
through some bosom of green meadow-land among the mountains, 
where the quiet was only interrupted by the occasional tinkling 
of a bell from the lazy cattle among the clover or the sound of 
a woodcutter's axe from the neighboring forest ! 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport 
that required either patience or adroitness, and had not angled 
above half an hour before I had completely " satisfied the senti- 
ment," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Walton's 
opinion, that angling is something like poetry — a man must be 
born to it. I hooked myself instead of the fish, tangled my line 
in every tree, lost my bait, broke my rod, until I gave up the 
attempt in despair, and passed the day under the trees reading 
old Izaak, satisfied that it was his fascinating vein of honest 
simplicity and rural feeling that had bewitched me, and not the 
passion for angling. My companions, however, were more per- 
severing in their delusion. I have them at this moment before 
my eyes, stealing along the border of the brook where it lay open 
to the day or was merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see 
the bittern rising with hollow scream as they break in upon his 
rarely invaded haunt ; the kingfisher watching them suspiciously 1 
from his dry tree that overhangs the deep black mill-pond in the : 
gorge of the hills ; the tortoise letting himself slip sideways from | 
off the stone or log on which he is sunning himself; and the \ 
panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as they approach, and 
spreading an alarm throughout the watery world around. 

I recollect also that, after toiling and watching and creeping 
about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely any success in 
spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lubberly country urchin 
came down from the hills with a rod made from a branch of a 
tree, a few yards of twine, and, as Heaven shall help me I I 



THE ANGLER 319 

believe a crooked pin for a hook, baited with a vile earthworm, 
and in half an hour caught more fish than we had nibbles 
throughout the day! 

But, above all, I recollect the "good, honest, wholesome, 
hungry " repast which we made under a beech tree just by a 
spring of pure sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill, 
and how, when it was over, one of the party read old Izaak 
Walton's scene with the milkmaid, while I lay on the grass and 
built castles in a bright pile of clouds until I fell asleep. All 
this may appear like mere egotism, yet I cannot refrain from 
uttering these recollections, which are passing like a strain of 
music over my mind and have been called up by an agreeable 
scene which I witnessed not long since. 

In the morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beauti- 
ful little stream which flows down from the Welsh hills and 
throws itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted to a 
group seated on the margin. On approaching I found it to 
consist of a veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The for- 
mer was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes very 
much but very carefully patched, betokening poverty honestly 
come by and decently maintained. His face bore the marks of 
former storms, but* present fair weather ; its furrows had been 
worn into an habitual smile, his iron-gray locks hung about his 
ears, and he had altogether the good-humored air of a constitu- 
tional philosopher who was disposed to take the world as it 
went. One of his companions was a ragged wight with the 
skulking look of an arrant poacher, and I'll warrant could find 
his way to any gentleman's fish-pond in the neighborhood in 
the darkest night. The other was a tall, awkward country lad, 
with a lounging gait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. 
The old man was busy in examining the maw of a trout which 
he had just killed, to discover by its contents what insects were 
seasonable for bait, and was lecturing on the subject to his 
companions, who appeared to listen with infinite deference. I 



320 THE SKETCH BOOK 

have a kind feeling towards all " brothers of the angle " ever 
since I read Izaak Walton. They are men, he affirms, of a 
" mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit ; " and my esteem for them 
has been increased since I met with an old Tretyse of fishing 
with the Angle, in which are set forth many of the maxims of 
their inoffensive fraternity. " Take good hede," sayeth this 
honest little tretyse, "that in going about your disportes ye 
open no man's gates but that ye shet them again. Also ye 
shall not use this forsayd crafti disport for no covetousness to 
the encreasing and sparing of your money only, but principally 
for your solace, and to cause the helth of your body and specyally 
of your soule." 

I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler before 
me an exemplification of what I had read ; and there was a 
cheerful contentedness in his looks that quite drew me towards 
him. I could not but remark the gallant manner in which he 
stumped from one part of the brook to another, waving his rod 
in the air to keep the line from dragging on the ground or 
catching among the bushes, and the adroitness with which he 
would throw his fly to any particular place, sometimes skimming 
it lightly along a little rapid, sometimes casting it into one of 
those dark holes made by a twisted root of overhanging bank 
in which the large trout are apt to lurk. In the meanwhile he 
was giving instructions to his two disciples, showing them the 
manner in which they should handle their rods, fix their flies, 
and play them along the surface of the stream. The scene 
brought to my mind the instructions of the sage Piscator to his 
scholar. The country around was of that pastoral kind which 
Walton is fond of describing. It was a part of the great plain 
of Cheshire, close by the beautiful vale of Gessford, and just 
where the inferior Welsh hills begin to swell up from among 
fresh-smelling meadows. The day too, like that recorded in his 
work, was mild and sunshiny, with now and then a soft-drop- 
ping shower that sowed the whole earth with diamonds. 



THE ANGLER 321 

I aoon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was so 
much entertained that, under pretext of receiving instructions 
in his art, I kept company with him almost the whole day, 
wandering along the banks of the stream and listening to his 
talk. He was very communicative, having all the easy garru- 
lity of cheerful old age, and I fancy was a little flattered by 
having an opportunity of displaying his piscatory lore, for who 
does not like now and then to play the sage 1 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had passed 
some years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah^ 
where he had entered into trade and had been ruined by the 
indiscretion of a partner. He had afterwards experienced many 
ups and downs in life until he got into the navy, where his leg 
was carried away by a cannon-ball at the battle of Camperdown. 
This was the only stroke of real good-fortune he had ever ex- 
perienced, for it got him a pension, which, together with some 
small paternal property, brought him in a revenue of nearly 
forty pounds. On this he retired to his native village, where 
he lived quietly and independently, and devoted the remainder 
of his life to the " noble art of angling." 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he 
seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent 
good-humor. Though he had been sorely buffeted about the 
world, he was satisfied that the world, in itself, was good and 
beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used in different 
countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by every hedge and 
thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with candor and kind- 
ness, appearing to look only on the good side of things ; 
and, above all, he was almost the only man I had ever met 
with who had been an unfortunate adventurer in America 
and had honesty and magnanimity enough to take the fault 
to his own door, and not to curse the country. The lad 
that was receiving his instructions, I learnt, was the son and 
heir-apparent of a fat old widow who kept the village inn, and 



322 THE SKETCH BOOK 

of course a youth of some expectation, and much courted by the 
idle gentleman-like personages of the place. In taking him 
under his care, therefore, the old man had probably an eye to a 
privileged corner in the tap-room and an occasional cup of cheer- 
ful ale free of expense. 

There is certainly something in angling — if we could forget, 
which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures inflicted 
on worms and insects — that tends to produce a gentleness of 
spirit and a pure serenity of mind. As the English are method- \ 
ical even in their recreations, and are the most scientific of 
sportsmen, it has been reduced among them to perfect rule and 
system. Indeed, it is an amusement peculiarly adapted to the 
mild and highly-cultivated scenery of England, where every 
roughness has been softened away from the landscape. It is 
delightful to saunter along those limpid streams which wander, 
like veins of silver, through the bosom of this beautiful country, 
leading one through a diversity of small home scenery — some- 
times winding through ornamented grounds ; sometimes brim- 
ming along through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is 
mingled with sweet-smelling flowers; sometimes venturing in 
sight of villages and hamlets, and then running capriciously 
away into shady retirements. The sweetness and serenity of 
Nature and the quiet watchfulness of the sport gradually bring 
on pleasant fits of musing, which are now and then agreeably 
interrupted by the song of a bird, the distant whistle of the 
peasant, or perhaps the vagary of some fish leaping out of the 
still water and skimming transiently about its glassy surface. 
"When I would beget content," says Izaak Walton, "and in- 
crease confidence in the power and wisdom and providence of 
Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, 
and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those 
very many other little living creatures that are not only created, 
but feed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the God ol 
Nature, and therefore trust in Him." 



TEE ANGLER 323 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of those 
ancient champions of angling which breathes the same innocent 
and happy spirit : — 

Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 

Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, 
Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink 

With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace ; 
And on the world and my Creator think : 

Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace; 
And others spend their time in base excess 
Of wine, or worse, in war or wantonness. 
Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, 

And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill ; 
So I the fields and meadows green may view. 

And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, 
Among the daisies and the violets blue. 

Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil. 

On parting with the old angler I inquired after his place of 
abode, and, happening to be in the neighborhood of the village 
a few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek him out. 
I found him living in a small cottage containing only one room, 
but a perfect curiosity in its method and arrangement. It was 
on the skirts of the village, on a green bank a little back from 
the road, with a small garden in front stocked with kitchen 
herbs and adorned with a few flowers. The whole front of the 
cottage was overrun with a honeysuckle. On the top was a 
ship for a weathercock. Tlie interior was fitted up in a truly 
nautical style, his ideas of comfort and convenience having been 
acquired on the berth-deck of a man-of-war. A hammock was 
slung from the ceiling which in the daytime was lashed up so 
as to take but little room. From the centre of the chamber 
hung a model of a ship, of his own workmanship. Two or 
three chairs, a table, and a large sea-chest formed the principal 
movables. About the wall were stuck up naval ballads, such 
as "Admiral Hosier's Ghost," "All in the Downs," and "Tom 
Bowling," intermingled with pictures of sea-fights, among which 



324 THE SKETCH BOOK 

the battle of Camperdown held a distinguished place. The 
mantelpiece was decorated v/ith sea-shells, over which hung a 
quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of most bitter-looking naval 
commanders. His implements for angling were carefully dis- 
posed on nails and hooks about the room. On a shelf was 
arranged his library, containing a work on angling, much worn, 
a Bible covered with canvas, an odd volume or two of voyages, 
a nautical almanac, and a book of songs. 

His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, and 
a parrot which he had caught and tamed and educated himself 
in the course of one of his voyages, and which uttered a variety 
of sea-phrases with the hoarse brattling tone of a veteran boat- 
swain. The establishment reminded me of that of the re- 
nowned Robinson Crusoe ; it was kept in neat order, everything 
being "stowed away" with the regularity of a ship of war; 
and he informed me that he " scoured the deck every morning 
and swept it between meals." 

I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking his 
pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly 
on the threshold, and his parrot describing some strange evolu- 
tions in an iron ring that swung in the centre of his cage. He 
had been angling all day, and gave me a history of his sport 
with as much minuteness as a general would talk over a cam- 
paign, being particularly animated in relating the manner in 
which he had taken a large trout, which had completely tasked 
all his skill and wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy 
to mine hostess of the inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old age, 
and to behold a poor fellow like this, after being tempest-tost 
through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet harbor in the 
evening of his days ! His happiness, however, sprung from 
within himself and was independent of external circumstances, 
for he had that inexhaustible good-nature which is the most 
precious gift of Heaven, spreading itself like oil over the 



THE ANGLER 325 

troubled sea of thought, and keeping the mind smooth and 
equable in the roughest weather. 

On inquiring further about him, I learnt that he was a uni 
versal favorite in the village and the oracle of the tap-room, 
where he delighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sindbad, 
astonished them with his stories of strange lands and ship- 
wrecks and sea-fights. He was much noticed too by gentlemen 
sportsmen of the neighborhood, had taught several of them the 
art of angling, and was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. 
The whole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, being prin- 
cipally passed about the neighboring streams when the weather 
and season were favorable ; and at other times he employed him- 
self at home, preparing his fishing-tackle for the next campaign or 
manufacturing rods, nets, and flies for his patrons and pupils 
among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though 
he generally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made it 
his particular request that when he died he should be buried in 
a green spot which he could see from his seat in church, and 
which he had marked out ever since he was a boy, and had 
thought of when far from home on the raging sea in danger of 
being food for the fishes : it was the spot where his father and 
mother had been buried. 

I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary, but 
I could not refrain from drawing the picture of this worthy 
"brother of the angle," who has made me more than ever in 
love with the theory, though I fear I shall never be adroit in 
the practice, of his art ; and I will conclude this rambling sketch 
in the words of honest Izaak Walton, by craving the blessing of 
St. Peter's Master upon my reader, " and upon all that are true 
lovers of virtue, and dare trust in His providence, and be quiet^ 
and go a-angling." 



326 THE SKETCH BOOK 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OP THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKER- 
BOCKER 

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was. 

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 

For ever flushing round a summer sky. 

Castle of Indolence. 1 

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the , 
eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river j 
denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, ; 
and where they always prudently shortened sail and implored , 
the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a i 
small market-town or rural port which by some is called Greens- \ 
burg, but which is more geu ^rally and properly known by the ] 
name of Tarry Town,° This name was given, we are told, in \ 
former days by the good housewives of the adjacent country \ 
from the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger about ' 
the village tavern on market days. Be that as it may, I do not i 
vouch for the fact, but merely advert to it for the sake of being ; 
precise and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaf>« about j 
two miles, there is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among i 
high hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. ' 
A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to 
lull one to repose, and the occasional whistle of a quail or tap- ' 
ping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound that ever breaks 
in upon the uniform tranquillity. 

I recollect that when a stripling ray first exploit in squirrel- . 
shooting was in a grove of tall walnut trees that shades one side 
of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all i 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 327 

1 

Nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my ! 

own gun as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was pro- | 

longed and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should \ 

wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its \ 

distractions and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled ] 

life, I know of none more promising than this little valley. 1 

From the listless repose of the place and the peculiar character { 

of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch I 

settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name j 

of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy 'i 
Hollow Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A 
drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land and to 

pervade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was \ 

bewitched by a High German doctor during the early days of \ 

the settlement ; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or i 

wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country i 

was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, the ! 

place still continues under the sway of some witching power that i 
holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to 

^walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of ^ 

t marvellous beliefs, are subject to trances and visions, and fre- ! 
„,quently see strange sights and hear music and voices in the air. 

" The whole neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, ; 

w, and twilight superstitions ; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener \ 
e across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the 

^loightmare, with her whole ninefold, seems to make it the favo^- | 
ite scene ^^j^ gam bolsv-r-'.^-' '*f'. . i<" j > r' 
The dorifipant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted 
region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers 

of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a i 

head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper ^ 

whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball in some i 

nameless battle during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever j 

and anon seen by the country-folk hurrying along in the gloom ! 



328 THE SKETCH BOOK 

' of night as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not 
-f confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, ; 
and esjjecially to the vicinity of a church at no great distance. 
Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, 
who have been careful in collecting and collating the floating 
facts concerning this spectre, allege that the body of the trooper, 
having been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to 
the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the 
rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the Hollow, 
like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated and in a 
hurry to get back to the churchyard before daybreak. , 

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which 
has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of 
shadows ; and the spectre is known at all the country firesides 
by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have men- 
tioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, 
but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for 
a time. However wide awake they may have been before they 
entered that sleepy region, they are sure in a little time to in- 
hale the witching influence of the air and begin to grow imagi- 
native — to dream dreams and see apparitions. 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud, for it is 
in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there em- 
bosomed in the great State of New York, that population, man- < 
^, ners, and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of 
^?)^igration and improvement, which is making such incessant 
-^^changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them 
unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still water which 
border a rapid stream where we may see the straw and /'bubble 
riding quietly at anchor or slowly revolving in their mimic liar- 
bor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though 
many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of , 
Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 329 

the same trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered 
bosom. 

In this by-place of Nature there abode, in a remote period of 
American history — that is to say, some thirty years since — a 
worthy wight of the name of Ichabod CraJie, who sojourned, or, 
as he expressed it, "tarried," in Sleepy Hollow for the purpose 
of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of 
Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for 
the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its 
legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. The 
cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was 
tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and 
legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that 
might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely 
hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge 
ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snip nose, so that it 
looked like a weathercock perched upon his spindle neck to tell 
which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the pro- 
file of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and flut- 
tering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius 
of Famine descending upon the earth or some scarecrow eloped 
from a cornfield. 

His school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely 
constructed of logs, the windows partly glazed and partly 
patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was most ingeniously 
secured at vacant hours by a withe twisted in the handle of the 
door and stakes set against the window-shutters, so that, though 
a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would find some em- 
barrassment in getting out — an idea most probably borrowed 
by the architect, Yost Yan Houten, from the mystery of an eel- 
pot. The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant 
situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running 
close by and a formidable birch tree growing at one end of it. 
From hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning ovet 



330 THE SKETCH BOOK 

their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer's day like the 
hum of a bee-hive, interrupted now and then by the authorita- 
tive voice of the master in the tone of menace or command, or, 
peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch as he urged 
some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth 
to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the 
golden maxim, " Spare the rod and spoil the child." Ichabod 
Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of 
those cruel potentates of the school who joy in the smart of 
their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with 
discrimination rather than severity, taking the burden off the 
backs of the weak and laying it on those of the strong. Your 
mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the 
rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of justice 
were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little 
tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked 
and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. 
All this he called "doing his duty by their parents;" and he 
never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assur- 
ance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that " he w^ould 
remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to 
live." 

When school-hours were over he was even the companion 
and playmate of the larger boys, and on holiday afternoons 
would convoy some of the smaller ones home who happened 
to have pretty sisters or good housewives for mothers noted for 
the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed it behooved him to keep 
on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his 
school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to 
furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, 
though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda ; but to 
help out his maintenance he was, according to country custom 
in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 331 

whose children he instructed. With these he lived successively 
a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood 
with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief. 

That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his 
rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling 
a grievous burden and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had 
various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. 
He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of 
their farms, helped to make hay, mended the fences, took the 
horses to water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for 
the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity 
and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, 
the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. 
He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the 
children, particularly the youngest ; and like the lion bold, 
which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would 
sit with a child on one knee and rock a cradle with his foot for 
whole hours together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master 
of the neighborhood and picked up many bright shillings by 
instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of 
no little vanity to him on Sundays to take his station in front 
of the church-gallery ° with a band of chosen singers, where, in 
his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from the 
parson. ' Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the 
rest of the congregation, and there ar§ peculiar quavers still 
to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half 
a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond on a still 
Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended 
from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little make- 
shifts in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated 
"by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got on tolera- 
bly enougli, and was thought, by all who understood nothing 
of the labor of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it 



332 THE SKETCH BOOK 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in 
the female circle of a rural neighborhood, being considered a 
kind of idle, gentleman-like personage of vastly superior taste 
and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, 
inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, there- 
fore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a 
farmhouse and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes 
or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. 
Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the 
smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among 
them in the churchyard between services on Sundays, gathering 
grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the surround- 
ing trees ; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the 
tombstones ; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along 
the banks of the adjacent mill-pond, while the more bashful 
country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior 
elegance and address. 

From his half-itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling 
gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house 
to house, so that his appearance was always greeted with satis- 
faction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man 
of great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, 
and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's History of New 
England Witchcraft^ in which, by the way, he most firmly 
and potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and 
simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous and his 
powers of digesting it were equally extraordinary, and both had 
been increased by his residence in this spellbound region. No 
tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It 
was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the 
afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover border- 
ing the little brook that whimpered by his school-house, and 
there con over old Mather's direful tales until the gathering 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 333 

dusk of the evening made the printed page a mere mist before 
his eyes. Then, as he wended his way by swamp and stream 
and awful woodland to the farmhouse where he happened to be 
quartered, every sound of Nature at that witching hour flut- 
tered his excited imagination — the moan of the whip-poor-will 
from the hillside ; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that har- 
binger of storm ; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the 
sudden rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their 
roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the 
darkest places, now and then startled him as one of uncommon 
brightness would stream across his path ; and if, by chance, a 
huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blundering flight 
against him, the poor vfirlet was ready to give up the ghost, 
with the idea that he was struck with a witch's token. His 
only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought or 
drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes ; and the good 
people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their doors of an even- 
ing, were often filled with awe at hearing his nasal melody, "in 
linked sweetness long drawn out," floating from the distant hill 
or along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass lon|*^ 
winter evenings with the old Dutch wives as they sat spinning 
by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along 
the hearth, and listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and 
goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted 
bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless 
horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they some- 
times called him. He would delight them equally by his anec- 
dotes of witchcraft and of the direful omens and portentous sights 
and sounds in the air which prevailed in the earlier times of 
Connecticut, and would frighten them woefully with specula- 
tions upon comets and shooting stars, and with the alarming 
fact that the world did absolutely turn round and that they 
were half the time topsy-turvy. 



334 THE SKETCH BOOK 

But if there was a pleasure in all this while snugly cuddling 
in the chimney-corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy 
glow from the crackling wood-fire, and where, of course, no 
spectre dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the 
terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful 
shapes and shadows beset his path amidst the dim and ghastly 
glare of a snowy night ! With what wistful look did he eye 
every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields 
from some distant window ! How often was he appalled by 
some shrub covered with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, 
beset his very path ! How often did he shrink with curdling 
awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath 
his feet, and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should 
behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him ! And 
how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rush- 
ing blast howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the 
Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms 
of the mind that walk in darkness ; and though he had seen 
many spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by 
Satan in divers shapes in his lonely perambulations, yet day- 
light put an end to all these evils ; and he would have passed 
a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all his works, 
if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more 
perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole 
race of witches put together, and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled one evening in 
each week to receive his instructions in psalmody was Katrina 
Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch 
farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen, plump as 
a partridge, ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her 
father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her 
beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of 
a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 335 

was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most suited 
to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow 
gold which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from 
Saardara, the tempting stomacher of the olden time, and withal 
a provokingly short petticoat to display the prettiest foot and 
ankle in the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex, 
and it is not to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon 
found favor in his eyes, more especially after he had visited her 
in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect 
picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He 
seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the 
•boundaries of his own ftirm, but within those everything was 
snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his 
wealth, but not proud of it, and piqued himself upon the 
hearty abundance, rather than the style, in which he lived. 
His stronghold w^as situated on the banks of the Hudson, in 
one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which the Dutch 
farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm tree spread its 
.broad branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a 
spring of the softest and sweetest water in a little well formed 
of a barrel, and then stole sparkling away through the grass 
to a neighboring brook that bubbled along among alders and 
dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast barn, that 
might have served for a church, every window and crevice of 
which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm ; 
the flail was busily resounding within it from morning to 
night ; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the 
eaves ; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as 
if watching the weather, some with their heads under their 
wings or buried in their bosoms, and others, swelling, and 
cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sun- 
shine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were grunting in the 
repose and abundance of their pens, whence sallied forth, now 



336 THE SKETCH BOOK 

and then, troops of sucking pigs as if to snuff the air. A • 
stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining ; 
pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks; regiments of turkeys \ 
were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea-fowls fretting j 
about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, dis- j 
contented cry. Before the barn-door strutted the gallant cock, i 
that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman, 
clapping his burnished wings and crowing in the pride and • 
gladness of his heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with | 
his feet, and then generously calling his ever-hungry family 
of wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had 
discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked upon his | 
sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring ! 
mind's eye he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running ; 
about with a pudding in his belly and an apple in his mouth ; ' 
the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie and j 
tucked in with a coverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming in | 
their own gravy ; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like ; 
snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. ' 
In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon I 
and juicy relishing ham ; not a turkey but he beheld daintily ; 
trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a ' 
necklace of savory sausages ; and even bright Chanticleer him- ; 
self lay sprawling on his back in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, I 
as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained ] 
to ask while living. | 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled ^ 
his great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields ! 
of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the or- . 
chards burdened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm : 
tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after tlie damsel i 
who was to inherit these domains, and his imagination ex- \ 
panded with the idea how they might be readily turned into ,: 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 337 

cash and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land 
and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy 
already realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming 
Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the top 
of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and 
kettles dangling beneath, and he beheld himself bestriding a 
pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, 
Tennessee, or tlie Lord knows where. 

When he entered the house the conquest of his heart was 
complete. It was one of those spacious farmhouses with high- 
ridged but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down 
from the tirst Dutch settlers, the low projecting eaves forming 
a piazza along the front capable of being closed up in bad 
weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils 
of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighboring river. 
Benches were built along the sides for summer use, and a great 
spinning-wheel at one end and a churn at the other showed the 
various uses to which this important porch might be devoted. 
From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the hall, which 
formed the centre of the mansion and the place of usual resi- 
dence. Here rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long 
dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of 
wool ready to be spun ; in another a quantity of linsey-woolsey 
just from the loom ; ears of Indian corn and strings of dried 
apples and peaches hung in gay festoons along the walls, min- 
gled with the gaud of red peppers ; and a door left ajar gave 
him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs 
and dark mahogany tables shone like mirrors ; andirons, with 
their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert 
of asparagus tops ; mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the 
mantelpiece; strings of various-colored birds' eggs were suspended 
above it ; a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the 
room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed 
immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china. 



338 THE SKETCH BOOK 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions 
of delight the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only- 
study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of 
Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real 
difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of 
yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters, fiery 
dragons, and such-like easily-conquered adversaries to contend 
with, and had to make his way merely through gates of iron and 
brass and walls of adamant to the castle keep, where the lady 
of his heart was confined ; all which he achieved as easily as a 
man would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie, and 
then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. Icha- 
bod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of a coun- 
try coquette beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices, 
which were forever presenting new difficulties and impediments, 
and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real 
flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admirers who beset every 
portal to her heart, keeping a watchful and angry eye upon 
each other, but ready to fly out in the common cause against 
any new competitor. 

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, 
roistering blade of the name of Abraham — or, according to the 
Dutch abbreviation, Brom — Van Brunt, the hero of the coun- 
try round, which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. 
He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with shoi't curly 
black hair and a bluff but not unpleasant countenance, having 
a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame 
and great powers of limb, he had received the nickname of 
Brom Bones, by which he was universally known. He was 
famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as 
dextrous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all 
races and cock-fights, and, with the ascendency which bodily 
strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, 
setting his hat on one side and giving his decisions with an air 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 339 

and tone admitting of no gainsay or appeal. He was always 
ready for either a fight or a frolic, but had more mischief than 
ill-will in his composition ; and with all his overbearing rough- 
ness there was a strong dash of waggish good-humor at bottom. 
He had three or four boon companions who regarded him as 
their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, 
attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles around. 
In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap surmounted 
with a flaunting fox's tail ; and when the folks at a country 
gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisk- 
ing about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood by 
for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along 
past the farmhouses at midnight with whoop and halloo, like a 
troop of Don Cossacks, and the old dames, startled out of 
their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had 
clattered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones 
and his gang ! " The neighbors looked upon him with a mix- 
ture of awe, admiration, and good- will, and when any madcap 
prank of rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity always shook their 
heads and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the bloom- 
ing Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and, 
though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle 
caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that 
she did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his 
advances were signals for rival candidates to retire who felt no 
inclination to cross a line in his amours ; insomuch, that when 
his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling on a Sunday 
night, a sure sign that his master was courting — or, as it is 
termed, "sparking" — within, all other suitors passed by in 
despair and carried the war into other quarters. 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane 
had to contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man than 
he would have shrunk from the competition and a wiser man 



340 THE SKETCH BOOK \ 

would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture oi : 
pliability and perseverance in his nature ; he was in form and ^ 
spirit like a supple jack — yielding, but tough ; though he ] 
bent, he never broke ; and though he bowed beneath the i 
slightest pressure, yet the moment it was awaj/-, jerk ! he was ' 
as erect and carried his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival would have ' 
been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his 
amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, ; 
therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently-insinuating ! 
manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master he | 
made frequent visits at the farmhouse ; not that he had any- \ 
thing to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, 
which is so often a stumbling-block in the path of lovers. 
Bait Van Tassel was an easy, indulgent soul; he loved his ' 
daughter better even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man i 
and an excellent father, let her have her way in everything. ; 
His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her " 
housekeeping and manage her poultry; for, as she sagely ; 
observed, ducks and geese are foolish things and must be looked \ 
after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus while the i 
busy dame bustled about the house or plied her spinning-wheel i 
at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his \ 
evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements of a little ; 
wooden warrior who, armed with a sword in each hand, was \ 
most valiantly fighting the wind on the j^innacle of the barn. , 
In the mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the ■ 
daughter by the side of the spring under the great elm or i 
sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so favorable to the 
lover's eloquence. i 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and \ 
won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and i 
admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point or \ 
door of access, while others have a thousand avenues and may i 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 341 

be captured in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph 
of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of general- 
ship to maintain possession of the latter, for a man must battle 
for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a 
thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some renown, 
but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette 
is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the 
redoubtable Brom Bones ; and from the moment Ichabod Crane 
made his advances the interests of the former evidently de- 
clined; his horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on 
Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between him 
and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, 
would fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have 
settled their pretensions to the lady according to the mode of 
those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant 
of yore — by single combat ; but Ichabod was too conscious of 
the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against 
him : he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would 
" double the schoolmaster up and lay him on a shelf of his own 
school-house ; " and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. 
There was something extremely provoking in this obstinately 
pacific system ; it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon 
the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition and to play off 
boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the 
object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough 
riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains ; smoked 
out his singing school by stopping up the chimney ; broke into 
the school-house at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings 
of withe and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy ; 
so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in 
the country held their meetings there. But, what was still 
more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him 
into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel 



342 THE SKETCH BOOK 

dog whom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, 
and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to instruct her in 
psalmody. 

In this way matters went on for some time without produc- 
ing any material effect on the relative situation of the contend- 
ing powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon Ichabod, in pensive 
mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool whence he usually watched 
all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he 
swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power ; the birch of 
justice reposed on three nails behind the throne, a constant 
terror to evil-doers ; while on the desk before him might be 
seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons detected 
upon the persons of idle urchins, such as half-munched apples, 
popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and wliole legions of rampant 
little paper game-cocks. Apparently there had been some 
appalling act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were 
all busily intent upon their books or slyly whispering behind 
them with one eye kept upon the master, and a kind of buzz- 
ing stillness reigned thoughout the school-room. It was sud- 
denly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth 
jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat like 
the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, 
wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way 
of halter. He came clattering up to the school door with an 
invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry-making or "quilting 
frolic " to be held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and, 
having delivered his message with that air of importance and 
effort at fine language which a negro is apt to display on petty 
embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen 
scampering away up the hollow, full of the importance and 
hurry of his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school-room. 
The scholars were hurried through their lessons without stop- 
ping at trifles ; those who were nimble skipped over half with 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 343 ; 

impunity, and those who were tardy had a smart application ; 

now and then in the rear to quicken their speed or help them ' 
over a tall word. Books were flung aside without being put 
away on the shelves, inkstands were overturned, benches thrown 

down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the * 

usual time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping j 

and racketing about the green in joy at their early emanci- i 

pation. i 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour i 
at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed 
only, suit of rusty black, and arranging his locks by a bit of 

broken looking-glass that hung up in the school-house. That \ 

he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true \ 

style of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with \ 

whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman of the | 

name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued i 

forth like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it is I 
meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some 
account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. 
The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse that 

had outlived almost everything but his viciousness. He was , 

gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; i 

his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs ; I 

one eye had lost its pupil and was glaring and spectral, but the | 

other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still, he must ' 

have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the 1 
name he bore of Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite 

steed of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furi- : 

ous rider, and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit \ 

into the animal ; for, old and broken down as he looked, there j 

was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young filly i 

in the country. I 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He lode i 

with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the i 



344 THE SKETCH BOOK 

pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grass- 
hoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendicularly in his hand like 
a sceptre ; and as his horse jogged on the motion of his arms 
was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool 
hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of 
forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat flut- 
tered out almost to his horse's tail. Such was the appearance 
of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the gate of 
Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as 
is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was 
clear and serene, and Nature wore that rich and golden livery 
which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The 
forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some 
trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into 
brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files 
of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the 
air ; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves 
of beech and hickory nuts^ and the pensive whistle of the 
quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In 
the fulness of their revelry they fluttered, chirping and frolick- 
ing, from bush to bush and tree to tree, capricious from the 
very profusion and variety around them. There was the hon- 
est cock robin, the fiivorite game of stripling sportsmen, with 
its loud querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds, flying 
in sable clouds ; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his 
crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage , 
and the cedar- bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow- tipt tail 
and its little monteiro cap of feathers ; and the blue jay, that 
noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white under- 
clothes, screaming and chattering, bobbing and noddmg and 
bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every song- 
ster of the grove. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 345 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way his eye, ever open to 
every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over 
the treasures of jolly Autumn. On all sides he beheld vast 
store of apples — some hanging in oppressive opulence on the 
trees, some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market, 
others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on 
he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peep- 
ing from their leafy coverts and holding out the promise of 
cakes and hasty pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying 
beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, 
and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies ; and 
anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat-fields, breathing the 
odor of the bee-hive, and as he beheld them soft anticipations 
stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered and gar- 
nished with honey or treacle by the delicate little dimpled hand 
of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and 
•'sugared suppositions,'' he journeyed along the sides of a 
range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes 
of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad 
disk down into the west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee 
lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a gen- 
tle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the 
distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, 
without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a 
fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, 
and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slant- 
ing ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that 
overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth to the 
dark-gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loiter- 
ing in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her 
sail hanging uselessly against the mast, and as the reflection 
of the sky gleamed along the still water it seemed as if the 
vessel was suspended in the air. 



346 THE SKETCH BOOK 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle 
of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the 
pride and flower of the adjacent country — old farmers, a spare, 
leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stock- 
ings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles ; their brisk 
withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted short- 
gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions and v 
gay calico pockets hanging on the outside ; buxom lasses, almost \ 
as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, \ 
a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of \ 
city innovation ; the sons, in short square -skirted coats with i 
rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally ' 
queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could pro- \ 
cure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout 
the country as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the j 
hair. j 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having \ 

come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil — a ] 

creature, like himself full of metal and mischief, and which no j 

one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for pre* ' 
ferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which kept 

the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable, '• 

well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. \ 

Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that 

burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero as he entered the ; 

state parlor of Van Tassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy \ 
of buxom lasses with their luxurious display of red and white, 

but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table in ' 

the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of ; 

cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only \ 

to experienced Dutch housewives ! There was the doughty \ 

doughnut, the tenderer oily koek, and the crisp and crumbling j 

cruller ; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey : 
cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 347 

apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies ; besides slices of 
ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of pre- 
served plums and peaches and pears and quinces ; not to men- 
tion broiled shad and roasted chickens ; together with bowls 
of milk and cream, — all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty 
much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot 
sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst. Heaven bless 
the mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as 
it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Hap- 
pily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, 
but did ample justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in 
proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose 
spirits rose with eating as some men's do with drink. He 
could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, 
and chuckling with the possibility that he might one day be 
lord of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and splen- 
dor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the 
old school-house, snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper 
-and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant peda- 
gogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade ! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with 
a face dilated with content and good-humor, round and jolly 
as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, 
but expressive, being confined to a shake of tlie hand, a slap 
on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to " fall 
to and help themselves." 

Anr" i/ow the sound of the music from the common room, or 
hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray- 
headed negro who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neigh- 
borhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as 
olo' and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he 
scraped ok two or three strings, accompanying every movement 
of the bow with a motion of the head, bowing almost to the 



348 THE SKETCH BOOK ' \ 

ground and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple 
were to start. ' 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon \ 
his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle ; i 
and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion and ' 
clattering about the room you would have thought Saint Vitus | 
himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before { 
you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes, who, 1 
having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the \ 
neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces \ 
at every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene, 
rolling their white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory - 
from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be other- \ 
Avise than animated and joyous? The lady of his heart was j 
his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in reply to all ; 
his amorous oglings, while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with .; 
love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner. ; 

When the dance was at an end Ichabod was attracted to a \ 
knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking 
at one end of the piazza gossiping over former times and draw- i 
ing out long stories about the war. | 

This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was i 
one of those highly favored places which abound with chronicle j 
and great men. The British and American line had run near ; 
it during the war : it had therefore been the scene of maraud- \ 
ing and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border ! 
chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each stor)'-- ' 
teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and in ] 
the indistinctness of his recollection to make himself the hero 
of every exploit. 

There was the story of Dofi'ae Martling, a large blue-bearded 
Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old 
iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun 
burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentle- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 349 

man who shall be nameless, bemg too rich a mynheer to be 
lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of Whiteplains, being an 
excellent master of defence, parried a musket-ball with a small 
sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade 
and glance off at the hilt : in proof of which he was ready 
at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. 
There were several more that had been equally great in the 
field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a con- 
siderable hand in bringing the war to a happy termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and appari- 
tions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary 
treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive 
best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats, but are trampled 
under foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of 
most of our country places. Besides, there is no encourage- 
ment for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely 
had time to finish their first nap and turn themselves in their 
graves before their surviving friends have travelled away from 
the neighborhood ; so that when they turn out at night to walk 
their rounds they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This 
is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except 
in our long-established Dutch communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of super- 
natural stories in these parts was doubtless owing to the vicin- 
ity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air 
that blew from that haunted region; it breathed forth an 
atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Sev- 
eral of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, 
and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. 
Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains and mourning 
cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where 
the unfortunate Major Andrd was taken, and which stood in the 
neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in 
white that haunted the dark glen at Kaven Rock, and was often 



350 THE SKETCH BOOK 

heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished 
there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned 
upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horse- 
man, who had been heard several times of late patrolling the 
country, and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly among the 
graves in the churchyard. 

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have 
made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a 
knoll surrounded by locust trees and lofty elms, from among 
which its decent whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like 
Christian purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A 
gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water bordered 
by high trees, between which peeps may be caught at the blue 
hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where 
the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that 
there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the 
church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large 
brook among broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a 
deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was 
formerly thrown a wooden bridge ; the road that led to it and 
the bridge itself were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, 
which cast a gloom about it even in the daytime, but occasioned 
a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the favorite haunts 
of the headless horseman, and the place where he was most 
frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a 
most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman 
returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged 
to get up behind him ; how they galloped over bush and brake, 
over hill and swamp, until thej reached the bridge, when the 
horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer 
into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap 
of thunder. 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice-marvellous 
adventure of Brom Bones, wno made light of the galloping 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 351 

Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that on returning 
one night from the neighboring village of Sing-Sing he had been 
overtaken by tliis midnight trooper ; tliat he had offered to race 
with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for 
Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they came 
to the church bridge the Hessian bolted and vanished in a flash 
of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which 
men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now 
and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank 
deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with 
large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and 
added many marvellous events that had taken place in his 
native state of Connecticut and fearful sights which he had 
seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. 

The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered 
together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some 
time rattling along the hollow roads and over the distant hills. 
Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite 
swains, and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the 
clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding 
fainter and fainter until they gradually died away, and the late 
scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod 
only lingered behind, according to the custom of country lovers, 
to have a tete-k-tete with the heiress, fully convinced that he 
was now on the high road to success. What passed at this 
interview 1 will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. 
Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he 
certainly sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air 
quite desolate and chop-fallen. Oh these women ! these women ! 
Could that girl have been playing ofi* any of her coquettish tricks'? 
Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham 
to secure her conquest of his rival ? Heaven only knows, not I ! 
Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who 



352 THE SKETCH BOOK 

had been sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. 
Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural 
wealth on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to 
the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks roused his 
steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in which 
he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and 
oats and whole valleys of timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy- 
hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travel homewards along the 
sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which 
he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was 
as dismal as himself Far below him the Tappan Zee° spread 
its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there 
the tall mast of a sloop riding quietly at anchor under the land. 
In the dead hush of midnight he could even hear the barking 
of the watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson ; but 
it was so vague and ftiint as only to give an idea of his distance 
from this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the 
long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would 
sound far, far off, from some ftirmhouse away among the hills ; 
but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life 
occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a 
cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog from a 
neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably and turning 
suddenly in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in 
the afternoon now came crowding upon his recollection. The 
night grew darker and darker ; the stars seemed to sink deeper 
in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his 
sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, 
moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes 
of the ghost-stories had been laid. In the centre of the road 
stood an enormous tulip tree which towered like a giant above 
all the other trees of the neighborhood and formed a kind of 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 353 

landmark. Its limits were gnarled and fantastic, large enough 
to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the 
earth and rising again into the air. It was connected with the 
tragical story of the unfortunate Andrd, who had been taken 
prisoner hard by, and was universally known by the name of 
Major Andre's tree. The common people regarded it with a 
mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for 
the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of 
strange sights and doleful lamentations told concerning it. 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree he began to whistle : 
he thought his whistle was answered ; it was but a blast sweep- 
ing sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a 
little nearer he thought he saw something white hanging in the 
midst of the tree : he paused and ceased whistling, but on 
looking more narrowly perceived that it was a place where the 
tree had been scathed by lightning and the white wood laid 
bare. Suddenly he heard a groan : his teeth chattered and his 
knees smote against the saddle ; it was but the rubbing of one 
huge bough upon another as they were swayed about by the 
. breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before 
him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed 
the ]-oad and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen known 
by the name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by 
side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the 
road where the brook entered the wood a group of oaks and 
chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cav- 
ernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest 
trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andrd° 
was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines 
were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This 
has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful 
are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after 
dark. 

2a 



354 THE SKETCH BOOK ' i 

As he approached the stream his heart began to thump ; he ' 
summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a 
score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across 
the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old 
animal made a lateral movement and ran broadside against the ' 
fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked : 
the reins on the other side and kicked lustily with the contrary ! 
foot : it was all in vain ; his steed started, it is true, but it was j 
only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of i 
brambles and alder-bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed ' 
both wliip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, j 
who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand j 
just by the bridge with a suddenness that had nearly sent his i 
rider sprawling over his head. Just at this moment a plashy j 
tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Icha- ' 
bod. In the dark shadow of the grove on the margin of the •; 
brook he beheld something huge, misshapen, black, and tower- i 
ing. It stirred not, but seemed , gathered up in the gloom, like ' 
some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller. ! 

The hair of the aff'righted pedagogue rose upon his head ; 
with terror. What was to be done 'I To turn and fly was now \ 
too late ; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost 
or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of i 
the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he " 
demanded in stammering accents, " Who are you 1 " He re- i 
ceived no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more ; 
agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he \ 
cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting ; 
his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune, i 
Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and 
with a scramble and a bound stood at once in the middle of the ; 
road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of 
the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He 
appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions and mounted on i 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 355 

a black horse of powerful frame. He made no oflfer of molesta- 
tion or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jog- 
ging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now 
got over his fright and waywardness. 

Ichabod, who had no re/ish for this strange midnight com- 
panion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones 
with the Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed in hopes 
of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his 
horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a 
walk, thinking to lag behind ; the other did the same. His 
heart began to sink within him ; he endeavored to resume his 
psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of 
his mouth and he could not utter a stave. There was some- 
thing in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious 
companion that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon 
fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which 
brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the 
sky, gigantic in height and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was 
horror-struck on perceiving that he was headless ! but his horror 
.was still more increased on observing that the head, which 
should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on 
the pommel of the saddle. His terror rose to desperation, he 
rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping 
by a sudden movement to give his companion the slip ; but the 
spectre started full jump with him. Away, then, they dashed 
through thick and thin, stones flying and sparks flashing at 
every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air as 
he stretched his long lank body away over his horse's head in 
the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy 
Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, 
instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn and plunged 
headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a 
sandy hollow shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, 



356 THE SKETCH BOOK 

where it crosses the briclge° famous in goblin story, and just be- 
yond swells the green knoll on which stands the whitewashed 
church. 

As yst the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider 
an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he had got 
halfway through the hollow the girths of the saddle gave away 
and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by the 
pommel and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain, and had 
just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the 
neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled 
under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans 
Van Ripper's wrath passed across his mind, for it was his 
Sunday saddle ; but this was no time for petty fears ; the goblin 
was hard on his haunches, and (unskilled rider that he was) he 
had much ado to maintain his seat, sometimes slipping on one 
side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high 
ridge of his horse's back-bone with a violence that he verily 
feared would cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that 
the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a 
silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not 
mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring 
under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom 
Bones' ghostly competitor had disappeared. " If I can but 
reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, "I am safe." Just then 
he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; 
he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive 
kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge ; 
he thundered over the resounding planks ; he gained the oppo- 
site side ; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his 
pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and 
brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, 
and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod 
endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It en- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 357 

countered his cranium with a tremendous crash ; he was tumbled 
headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and 
the goblin rider passed by like a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found, without his 
saddle and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the 
grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appear- 
ance at breakfast; dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The 
boys assembled at the school-house and strolled idly about the 
banks of the brook ; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper 
now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor 
Ichabod and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after 
diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part 
of the road leading to the church was found the saddle trampled 
in the dirt ; the tracks of horses' hoofs, deeply dented in the 
road and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, 
beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where 
the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortu- 
nate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster 
was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of 
his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly 
effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half, two stocks 
for the neck, a pair or two of worsted stockings, an old pair of 
corduroy small-clothes, a rusty razor, a book of psalm tunes full 
of dog's ears, and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the books and 
furniture of the school-house, they belonged to the community, 
excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a ISfeiv Eng- 
land Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in 
which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted 
in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor 
of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic 
scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van 
Ripper, who from that time forward determined to send his 
children no more to school, observing that he never knew any 



858 THE SKETCH BOOK 

good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money ! 
the schoolmaster possessed — and he had received his quarter's 
pay but a day or two before — he must have had about his i 
person at the time of his disappearance. i 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church i 
on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were col- j 
lected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot w^here j 
the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, ; 
df Bones, and a whole budget of others were called to mind, ^ 
and when they had diligently considered them all, and compared ' 
them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their \ 
heads and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been carried 
off by the Galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor and in 
nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him, 
the school was removed to a different quarter of the hollow and 
another pedagogue reigned in his stead. 

It is true an old farmer, who liad been do.wn to New York 
on a visit several years after, and from whom this account of 
the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelli- 
gence that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; that he had left the 
neighborhood, partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van 
Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been suddenly 
dismissed by the heiress ; that he had changed his quarters 
to a distant part of the country ; had kept school and studied ■ 
?aw at the same time, had been admitted to the bar, turned 
politician, electioneered, written for the newspapers, and finally 
had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones \ 
too, who shortly after his rival's disappearance conducted the 
blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look | 
exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, 
and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the 
pumpkin ; which led some to suspect that he knew more about 
the matter than he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 359 

these matters, maintain to* this day that Ichabod was spirited 
away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite stoiy often 
told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. 
The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious 
awe, and that may be the reason why the road has been altered 
of late years, so as to approach the church by the border of the 
mill-pond. The school-house, being deserted, soon fell to decay, 
and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate 
pedagogue ; and the plough-boy, loitering homeward of a still 
summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance chant- 
ing a melancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of 
Sleepy Hollow. 



POSTSCRIPT, 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER 

The preceding tale is given almost in the precise words in 
which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient 
city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest 
and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, 
shabby, gentlemanly old fellow in pepper-and-salt clothes, with 
a sadly humorous face, and one whom I strongly suspected of 
being poor, he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his 
story was concluded there was much laughter and approbation, 
particularly from two or three deputy aldermen who had been 
asleep the greater part of the time. There was, however, one 
tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who 
maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout, now and 
then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon 
the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one 
of your wary men, who never laugh but upon good grounds — 
when they have reason and tlie law on their side. When the 
mirth of the rest of the company had subsided and silence was 



360 THE SKETCH BOOK \ 

restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and j 
sticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceed- ; 
ingly sage motion of the head and contraction of the brow, what j 
was the moral of the story and what it went to prove. | 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his j 
lips as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked 
at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering ; 
the glass slowly to the table, observed that the story was in- i 
tended most logically to prove — ' 

"That there is no situation in life but has its advantages > 
and pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it ; ! 

" That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is \ 
likely to have rough riding of it. \ 

"Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand : 
of a Dutch heiress is a certain step to high preferment in the | 
state." i 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer ': 
after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination ; 
of the syllogism, while methought the one in pepper-and-salt ' 
eyed him with something of a 'riumphant leer. At length he i 
observed that all this was very well, but still he thought the i 
story a little on the extravagant — there were one or two points \ 
on which he had his doubts. ! 

"Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, 1 \ 
ion't believe one-half of it my:;elf." 



L'ENVOT 361 



L'ENVOY 

Go, little booke, God send thee good passage. 
And specially let this be thy prayere, 
Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, 
Thee to correct in any part or all. 

Chaucer's Belle Dame sans Merde, 

In concluding a second volume of the Sketch Book the Author 
cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence with which 
his first has been received, and of the liberal disposition that 
has been evinced to treat him with kindness as a stranger. 
Even the critics, whatever may be said of them by others, he 
has found to be a singularly gentle and good-natured race ; it is 
true that each has in turn objected to some one or two articles, 
and that these individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, 
would amount almost to a total condemnation of his work ; but 
then he has been consoled by observing that what one has par- 
ticularly censured another has as particularly praised ; and thus, 
the encomiums being set off against the objections, he finds his 
work, upon the whole, commended far beyond its deserts. 

He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this 
kind favor by not following the counsel that has been liberally 
bestowed upon him ; for where abundance of valuable advice 
is given gratis it may seem a man's own fault if he should go 
astray. He only can say in his vindication that he faithfully 
determined for a time to govern himself in his second volume 
by the opinions passed upon his first ; but he was soon brought 
to a stand by the contrariety of excellent counsel. One kindly 
advised him to avoid the ludicrous ; another to shun the pa- 
thetic ; a third assured him that he was tolerable at descrip- 
tion, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone ; while a fourth 



362 THE SKETCH BOOK ! 

declared that he had a very pretty knack at turning a story, * 

and was really entertaining when in a pensive mood, but was ' 

grievously mistaken if he imagined himself to possess a spirit i 

of humor. \ 

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in ; 
turn closed some particular path, but left him all the world 
beside to range in, he found that to follow all their counsels 

would, in fact, be to stand still. He remained for a time sadly j 

embarrassed, when all at once the thought struck him to ramble | 

on as he had begun ; that his work being miscellaneous and ; 
written for different humors, it could not be expected that any 

one would be pleased with the whole; but that if it should \ 
contain something to suit each reader, his end would be com- 
pletely answered. Few guests sit down to a varied table with 

an equal appetite for every dish. One has an elegant horror : 

of a roasted pig; another holds a curry or a devil in utter ' 

abomination ; a third cannot tolerate the ancient flavor of veni- \ 

son and wild fowl; and a fourth, of truly masculine stomach, • 

looks with sovereign contempt on those knick-knacks here and ' 

there dished up for the ladies. Thus each article is condemned \ 

in its turn, and yet amidst this variety of appetites seldom does ! 

a dish go away from the table without being tasted and relished : 

by some one or other of the guests. \ 

With these considerations he ventures to serve up this second j 

volume in the same heterogeneous way with his first ; simply ■ 

requesting the reader, if he should find here and there some- : 

thing to please him, to rest assured that it was written ex- ; 

pressly for intelligent readers like himself; but entreating him, ! 

should he find anything to dislike, to tolerate it, as one of those : 
articles which the author has been obliged to write for readers 

of a less refined taste. ■ 

To be serious : The author is conscious of the numerous j 

faults and imperfections of his work, and well aware how little ' 

he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts of authorship. | 



Venvot 363 

His deficiencies are also increased by a diffidence arising from 
iiis peculiar situation. He finds himself writing in a strange 
land, and appearing before a public which he has been accus' 
tomed from childhood to regard with the highest feelings of awe 
and reverence. He is full of solicitude to deserve their appro- 
bation, yet finds that very solicitude continually embarrassing 
hie powers and depriving him of that ease and confidence which 
are necessary to successful exertion. Still, the kindness with 
which he is treated encourages him to go on, hoping that in 
time he may acquire a steadier footing ; and thus he proceeds, 
half venturing, half shrinking, surprised at his own good-fortune 
and wondering at his own temerity. 



NOTES 

Page 4. Irving made his first voyage to Europe in 1804. 

P. 11. William Roscoe was born near Liverpool, March 8, 1753, 
and died June 27, 1831. He was the son of an innkeeper, studied 
law, began writing for publication at an early age, was an ardent 
advocate of the abolition of the slave trade, and was the author of 
several historical works, the most important being 77? e Life of 
Lorenzo di 3IecUci, called the Magnificent, and the History of the 
Life and Pontificate of Leo X. 

P. 14. An address delivered at the opening of the Liverpool 
Institution. 

P. 27. The Catskill Mountains form part of the Appalachian 
chain, on the west side of the Hudson River. The highest peak of 
the range has an elevation of about 3800 feet. 

P. 28. Peter Stujrvesant was born in Holland in 1602, and died 
in New York in 1682. He came to New York in 1647 as Director 
General of the New Netherlands by appointment of the Dutch West 
India Company. He was of a choleric temper, but a vigorous and 
able administrator. He contended unsuccessfully against encroach- 
ments by the New England colonies, and was finally compelled, 
against his will, to surrender New York to an English fleet, Septem- 
ber 30, 1664. After a short visit to Holland he returned to the city 
of his adoption, and devoted himself to the cultivation of his farm, 
then outside the city limits, but now forming a part of the Bowery, 
a well-known street on the east side of New York. 

365 



366 NOTES 

p. 63. From a poem by the Rev. Rann Kennedy on the death of 
the Princess Charlotte. 

P. 75. Francis Beaumont, English dramatist, born about 1585, 
died 1616. 

John Fletcher, English dramatist, born about 1579, died 1625. 
These dramatists collaborated in writing a number of plays. 

Ben Jonson, English dramatist, born about 1573, died 1637. 

P. 77. Sir Peter Lely, well-known portrait painter of the perioa 
of the Restoration. Born in Westphalia about 1617, died 1680. 

P. 79. James Stuart, born about 1394, prisoner in England in 
1424, assassinated 1437. 

P. 121. Robert Grosseteste, prelate and chronicler, born about 
1175, died 1253. 

Giraldus Cambrensis, historian, supposed to have died about 1220. 

Henry of Huntingdon, archdeacon of Huntingdon, chronicler in 
thirteenth century. 

William of Malmesbury, historian and chronicler, born about 
1095, and died about 1143. 

Wynkyn de Worde, an English printer, successor of Caxton, died 
about 1534. 

P. 123. Sir Philip Sidney, courtier, soldier, and writer, born 
1554, died 1586. 

Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, born 1536, died 1608 ; soldier 
and writer ; author of Gorboduc, the earliest English tragedy. 

John Lyly, author of Enphues, born about 1554, died about 
1606. 
P. 129. Sir Thomas Overbury, born 1581, died 1613. 

P. 133. Robert Herrick, born 1591, died 1674 j one of the foremost 
of the Caroline poets. 



NOTES 367 

P. 134. Jeremy Taylor, born 1613, died 1667 ; one of the greatest 
of English preachers and prose writers ; master of a rich and 
sonorous style, seen at its best in Holy Living and Holy Dying. 

P. 142. Katzenellenbogen ; Cat's elbow. 

P. 158. Westminster Abbey stands on the left bank of the 
Thames in London, near Westminster Palace. It is filled with 
monuments to celebrated men in public life and in the arts, and 
has become a mausoleum of English royalty and genius. No other 
church in England conserves so much that explains the leading 
position of the nation in the affairs of the world, and none possesses 
so much interest for Americans. 

P. 161. Poets' Corner ; the end of the south transept of West- 
minster Abbey is filled with monuments and other memorials of 
English writers from the time of Chaucer to that of Browning and 
Tennyson. A bust of Longfellow was placed in the Poets' Corner 
not long after his death, and is the only memorial of an American 
writer in the Abbey. 

P. 164. Henry the Seventh's chapel, at the east end of West- 
minster Abbey, is a very rich and beautiful structure, completed 
about 1520. It is notable for its carven chair-stalls and for its fan- 
tracery ceiling, which shows the Perpendicular style in its most 
ornate period. 

Knights of the Bath, an English military order, second in rank 
only to the Order of the Garter ; made up of three classes : 

Knights Grand Cross (K. G. C), Knights Commanders, and 
Companions. The Order derives its name from the ceremony of 
bathing at the initiation of the Knights, 

P. 167. Edward the Confessor ; one of the early kings of Eng- 
land, born 1004, died 1066 ; his ascetic life secured for him 
recognition as a saint in the Roman Catholic Churchc 



368 NOTES 

P. 169. Sir Thomas Browne, born 1605, died 1682, author of a 
number of prose works, the most important being Beligio Medici 
and Urn Burial; master of a style of notable richness, and at 
times of noble eloquence. 

P. 186. These lines appeared in Poor Robin's Almanac, 1684o 

P. 187. Peacham's Complete Gentleman^ published 1622. 

P. 191. The mistletoe was connected with the Druid superstitions, 
and was supposed to possess magical powers. The old English 
custom of kissing under the mistletoe probably had a very ancient 
origin. 

P. 192. Yule was the Scotch name for Christmas ; originally it 
was the name of a heathen festival held at the time of the winter 
solstice. The burning of the Yule log or clog was one of the 
features of old-time Christmas festivities. 

P. 207. Many of the old customs are no longer observed ; others, 
like the singing of the waits, are still in vogue in many parts of 
England. 

P. 209. In the old times all the tenants on an English estate 
were welcome at the Hall on Christmas Day, and bountifully served 
with Christmas fare and ale. 

P. 215. One of the features of the old-time Christmas festivities 
was the serving of a boar's head, brought into the dining hall with 
great state ; a custom still observed in some of the colleges. 

P. 217. The Wassail Bowl was compounded of ale or wine, with 
nutmeg, ginger, and other ingredients. 

Formerly it was the custom to drink out of one large cup, which 
passed from hand to hand. 

P. 220. Joe Miller ; a synonym for a story which has become old 
by repetition. Joseph Miller was an English comic actor, who 



NOTES 369 

died in 1738, whose name has been associated with a once famous 
list book, published after his death. 

Lord of Misrule, master of the revels. 

P. 223. A Masque was a dramatic entertainment, probably of 
Italian origin, in which spectacular effects were introduced with 
musical accompaniments ; a precursor of, and entirely supplanted 
by, the opera. 

The Covenanters were signers of the agreement to protect the 
Reformed religion in the Church of Scotland from the efforts made 
by Charles I to enforce the use of the form of worship used in 
the Church of England ; the Covenant was published in 1638. 

Robin Hood, a popular hero in England and the hero of many 
ballads, lived the life of an outlaw in the forests of Nottingham and 
Yorkshire early in the fourteenth century ; he was an expert archer, 
spared the poor and robbed the rich, was plucky and generous, 
and became a popular hero by virtue of his humor, audacity, and 
kindness to the poor ; among his companions was Maid Marian. 

P. 224. Minuet, a slow, stately, graceful dance, once very pop- 
ular. 

P. 226. The Temple Church,' situated within the bounds of the 
Inner Temple on the south side of Elect St., London. The choir, 
built in the thirteenth century, is notable for its clustered pillars of 
dark marble. The Round Church, at the west end, is a Norman 
structure, dates from the twelfth century, and contains the monu- 
ments of nine templars, recumbent figures of dark marble in full 
armor. 

P. 236. The Gentleman's Magazine, one of the earliest English 
magazines, was established in London by Edward Cave in 1732. 

P. 239. St. Bartholomew's Fair, a fair held annually for many 
centuries on the festival of St. Bartholomew in West Smithfield, 
London, abolished in 1855. 



370 NOTES 

Lord Mayor's Day ; the procession of the Lord Mayor of London 
on the day of his accession to office is still kept up. 

P. 247. The Red Horse Inn is still popular with visitors to Strat- 
ford ; is a typical, well-kept English inn ; the chair in which Irving 
sat and the poker with which he poked the tire are preserved as 
literary relics. 

P. 253. The Lucys were a well-known "Warwickshire family in 
Shakespeare's time, and their great house at Charlecote still stands. 

P. 254. Justice Shallow, supposed to be a satirical portraiture of 
Sir Thomas Lucy, appears in the second part of Shakespeare's 
Henry IV. 

P. 274. The Pequod Indians belonged to the great Algonquin 
family, and were settled in eastern Connecticut. 

P. 278. Philip of Pokanoket, better known as King Philip. 

P. 281. Mount Hope, now Bristol, R. I. 

P. 317. Izaak Walton, born 1593, died 1683 ; author of the 
Complete Angler., and of five short biographies notable for un- 
affected simplicity, sincerity, and the charm of quaint and naive 
meditation and sentiment. 

P. 326. Tarry Town, one of the most beautiful towns on the 
Hudson, with many handsome residences and rapidly increasing 
business interests ; many descendants of the early Dutch settlers 
still live in the town. Irving is buried in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery 
on the outskirts of Tarrytown. 

P. 331. The church-gallery was at the end of the church, and 
was reserved for the singers. 

P. 332. Cotton Mather, a famous Puritan preacher, born in 
Boston in 1663, died in 1728 ; author of many works, including 
Memorable Providences relating to Witchcraft and Possession. 



NOTES 371 

P. 352. The Tappan Zee, the name given by the early Dutch 

settlers to the broad expanse of the Hudson between Dobbs Ferry 
and Croton Landing. 

P. 353. Andre, born in London in 1751 ; sent to America with 
the rank of lieutenant in 1774 ; a man of cultivated tastes and of 
superior abilities ; made adjutant-general with rank of major in 
1779 ; selected by the British commander, Sir Henry Clinton, to 
arrange with Benedict Arnold for the transfer of West Point to 
British hands ; under an assumed name met Arnold, secured maps 
and plans of West Point and a pass through the American lines ; 
was intercepted at Tarrytown by three Westchester county men, 
searched, arrested, tried as a spy, condemned to be hung, and exe- 
cuted October 2, 1780. 

P. 356. This bridge crossed the Pocantico, a small but picturesque 
stream, not far from the old church ; the church is still standing, 
but the early bridge has been replaced by a modern structure. 



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